


Of Nightmares and Fantasies

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Gore, Bottom Dean, Brief Mention of Farm Animal Deaths, Case Fic, Dark, Graphic Description, Graphic Violence, Hallucinations, M/M, Murder, Mutilation, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Violence, Original Character Death(s), Rape/Non-con Elements, Season/Series 04, Self-Harm, Sexual Violence, Smut, Suicide, Torture, Torturer Dean, implied bottom Sam, implied past Sam/Ruby, past Sam/Jess - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-13
Packaged: 2018-11-11 08:58:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11145162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Still reeling from Hell and the discovery of Sam’s alliance with Ruby, Dean is reluctant to work a case involving a rash of suicides in a small town. But even his unwillingness can’t save the brothers from ending up in the sights of one of the most brutal monsters they have ever faced. Appearing in Dean’s nightmares as a twisted copy of Sam, Dean realizes that his Hellish past and the secret he’s hidden since childhood could destroy what sanity he has left, and ruin his relationship with his brother forever.





	1. That's Interesting

**Author's Note:**

> Please heed the warnings on this fic. It is a very graphic case fic.
> 
> Special thanks to the various alpha/beta readers that helped me over the course of this fic: audaciousdean, brothersonahotelbed, nothin-after-79, and jerksarehot over on Tumblr.  
> Art done by the awesome [sketchydean](http://sketchydean.tumblr.com/) over on Tumblr.  
> Also thanks to jelly-beans-and-gstrings on Tumblr for giving me tips and advice for some of the medical info I needed!  
> And purgatoan on Tumblr for being a much needed cheerleader.

“Now that’s just interesting,” Dean rolled his eyes up to look at Sam.

“If it’s anything that requires brain power, let me drink my coffee first. It’s six-thirty, Sam.”

Sam glanced over. “Shut up. You never use brain power.”

Dean pulled a face and flipped off his brother, nuzzling back under the blanket around his shoulders and sipping the coffee Sam had so graciously brought him. “Did you even sleep?”

“A couple hours,” Sam muttered, his face close to the laptop screen. Sometimes Dean wondered if his little brother needed glasses. “So get this—“

“Coffee.”

“Just listen, Dean. Have you ever heard of Ulm, Montana?”

Dean blinked at Sam owlishly and took another swig of his coffee. “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response.”

Sam rolled his eyes and continued. “I guess there’s recently been a rash of suicides.”

“Sucks for them.”

“Right – but these suicides are all by farmers. And they all have one thing in common.”

“Depression?” Dean grumped.

Sam threw a bitchface. “No. They all killed themselves by slitting their throats in houses that were so dirty they were almost unlivable.”

Dean continued to blink at Sam, his expression not shifting from a blank boredom.

Finally Sam sighed and gesticulated at the computer. “Not interesting to you?”

“Six. Thirty. Not. Enough. Coffee.”

“Dude.”

“Dude,” Dean mimicked, bobbing his head in the sassiest manner he could manage. “Farming sucks. Maybe they just got sick of it and offed themselves. Not good, but it’s not our thing.”

“Yeah, well I think it is,” Sam bit back, snapping his computer shut. “I wanna go check it out.”

“Sam, Montana is a fourteen-hour drive from us right now. For something that may turn out to be a dead lead.”

“Dean. Come on. You’re the one that’s always telling me to go with my gut on cases. My gut says this is a case. Please?” Sam’s eyes widened a little, softening his features and giving him a pouty, puppyish look.

Dean groaned and climbed out of the bed. “I hate you. We’ll leave in half an hour.”

Sam grinned widely and rose, nodding. He stopped short when Dean jutted a finger in his face. “But you’re buying breakfast.”

“Stick that finger in my face again and I’ll bite it off,” Sam responded simply, pushing Dean out of the way to pack up his duffel.


	2. Not Our Thing

“I know this difficult for you, Mrs. Petersen, but we need to go over this again,” Sam spoke softly, leaning down to meet the widow’s bloodshot eyes. She nodded, sniffling.

“I—I found him in the bathroom. There was so much blood. He—He stabbed himself in the throat with the knife on his Leatherman. Three times. He—“ Her voice broke as she sobbed into the tissue for a moment. “Who can even do that?” She asked, clearly distraught.

Sam shook his head, making a note in his book. “Now, before his suicide, was he acting depressed or different at all?”

“Different?”

“Any new hobbies or things he’d talk about? Different mannerisms, anything like that?” Dean pressed.

She shook her head. “Why are you asking me this? Robert killed himself.”

“Yes, ma’am. But you see, there’ve been quite a few suicides lately in this town and the CDC is a bit concerned that it might be something else.” Dean lied.

“Something else? Oh God, am I going to kill myself?”

Sam’s jaw twitched and threw Dean the angriest expression he could manage without tipping off the witness. “No, ma’am. It seems to only be affecting males. We’re trying to find something that could be causing this,” Sam explained more clearly. “So, was he acting any different?”

“Not that I can remember,” She said softly. Her brows furrowed then. “Well—“

“Yes?” Sam prodded, his eyebrows raising. This could be it.

“There were nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” Sam asked, glancing at Dean, who threw him a quick ‘who cares’ expression.

“Yes. He said that there was a man in his dreams – hurting him. Um… Molesting him. I assumed it was just the stress. We’ve been low on money lately – bad crops and our animals aren’t doing so well.”

Sam nodded, making note of it. He offered a consoling smile and reached out, touching her wrist. “That’s it for now, Mrs. Peterson. Thank you so much for your time. And we are so sorry for your loss.”

She smiled through her tears and set her other hand over Sam’s. “You seem like a nice young man, Mr. Halford. Thank you.”

Sam and Dean rose and Dean pulled out a business card. “If you uh, think of anything else at all – Give us a call. Any time.” He said, passing it to her.

She smiled and took it. “Thank you, Mr. Tipton.”

Dean nodded and let Sam lead him out. They walked the long way back to their car, taking in the quiet farm.

Sam scowled as they wandered through the fences. It was almost too quiet. He could see one cow that looked half dead and three weak looking chickens. Off in the corner of the yard was the only healthy looking animal, a large black hen with shining feathers and bright eyes. Sam grimaced; what a creepy bird.

When they reached the car, Dean cleared his throat. “Well that was a bust.”

“How was that a bust? The guy was having nightmares about somebody raping him.”

“Maybe he was repressing homosexual thoughts, Sam – I don’t know. But I do know this doesn’t sound like our thing. Let’s just get to a hotel, rest up, and leave tomorrow.”

Sam blinked at Dean in shock. “No. This is our thing and I’ll prove it to you.”

“Oh yeah? How?”

Sam’s shoulders sagged a little at the question. “I don’t know. But I’m gonna. Drop me off at the next victim’s house.”

“Dude, that’s like ten miles. These farms are spread so far apart.”

“Then let me off at the main road and I’ll hitchhike!” Sam snapped, getting frustrated with Dean’s sudden defiance.

“No, nuh-uh. You know as well as I do what happens to hitchhikers. I’ll drive you. But I’m not staying. This is a waste of time.”

“Fine. I’ll call when I need to be picked up.” Sam crossed his arms, refusing to budge.

Dean rolled his eyes deep enough that it had to hurt. “Fine,” He grumbled before starting the car and speeding off.

Sam huffed, refusing to look at his increasingly frustrating brother. Instead he stared out the window. The mountains rose up on all sides of them, beautiful despite the ominous reason that they were in this state. Grey and black, splotches and slashes of red and green; the tips were already coated in white snow. The weather was getting chillier, Sam had a feeling it would be snowing within the next few weeks here. But they’d be gone by then, never staying long enough to watch the shift in seasons. 

A part of him still resented that. Being with his family, he never got to watch the trees change color as Autumn bled into Winter. He had in California, a little - though winters there were never as harsh as the ones he’d driven through with his Dad and brother growing up. And now that was gone. Pushed into the back of his mind, a memory that still ached after so many years, and probably would forever. 

Dean jerked the car into park in front of the dilapidated house. “Go chase your imaginary case.”

“You’re an asshole,” Sam grumbled, climbing out of the car and fixing his coat as Dean drove away, spraying gravel from the driveway.


	3. The Lakemoore Residence

Sam slammed into the hotel room at nearly midnight. Dean was standing, pacing back and forth.

“Where the hell were you?” He snarled.

Sam pulled back, wrinkling his nose in surprise. “Back off, Dean. I was interviewing witnesses.”

“It’s nearly midnight!”

“And? I’m a big boy, Dean.”

“You were out on some creepy farm in the middle of podunk Montana! I thought you were kidnapped or eaten by cannibals or something!”

“Dean. Cool your shit,” Sam grumped, his brows furrowed together in a confused scowl. “The Ryan’s invited me to stay for dinner since I was so far out of town. I ended up helping the oldest kid with some of the farm chores since their dad, you know, slit his throat from ear to ear in their kitchen. They gave me a lift back here when the chores were done. I didn’t wanna bug you.”

“You—“ Dean inhaled deeply, clearly trying not to lose his cool. “You didn’t want to bug me? Sam. You check in with me when we are separated. Since when has this not been protocol? Huh?”

“I’m sorry. You just made it pretty clear you weren’t interested in this as a case so I didn’t want to piss you off worse. I’m taking a shower and going to bed.” Sam shoved past Dean and headed into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Dean stared lamely after him, blinking slowly.

***

The police radio woke both brothers well before sunrise the next morning.

“Possible ten-fifty-six at the Lakemoore residence.”

Sam sat up, giving Dean his best ‘told you so’ expression.

“Fine, whatever. We’ll check it out,” Dean grumbled, pulling on his jeans.

***

The house was quiet despite the ambulance and police cruisers that sat out front. As Sam and Dean approached, they could see a very pregnant young woman crying on the shoulder of an officer, a little boy no older than six or seven clinging to her leg.

Sam’s heart sank a little. He couldn’t keep this family safe. He’d failed. Despite the sick feeling he had, he approached another officer, flashing his CDC badge. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dean do the same.

“Is Sheriff Daniels here?” Dean asked.

The young officer nodded and pointed toward the house. He looked terrified of Sam and Dean, despite their plain clothes.

The brothers entered the house, stopping short right past the doorway. It was a mess. Flies seemed to have taken up residence on every wall. A glance into the kitchen showed an overturned trashcan and a sink full of dirty dishes. At least five plates were shattered on the floor. The living room was just as bad. The television had been knocked over, as well as various knick-knacks strewn across the floor. An action figure with every limb torn off was hanging crookedly from the ceiling fan in a tiny noose.

Sam looked over at Dean, grimacing. Dean shook his head and took the lead, following the sound of voices into the bedroom. Upon entering, Sam gasped softly. The body had been removed, but there was no mistaking what went down.

Blood was splattered across the nearest wall to the door, dripping down the dull yellow wallpaper and turning it a sickening sepia tone. The mirror had the worst of it, arching splashes of red, distorting the reflection like a murderous funhouse.

Underneath the mirror was a wide bloodstain on the eggshell carpet, matting down the previously soft material and dying it a deep red. A paring knife lay in the middle of the stain, blade and handle red and glinting wetly off the moonlight.

Sam nudged Dean and pointed to the mirror, noticing the spider-webbing pattern from one center point; it had been punched, or at least struck hard with something.

Dean nodded, approaching the Sheriff slowly. He had to step around various blood drops and people, but finally reached him.

Sheriff Daniels nodded. “Mr. Tipton, Mr. Halford. I’m glad you guys could make it. I can’t figure this out. This is the fifth farmer that’s killed himself in my town now. If it keeps going like this the whole town’s gonna die. What the hell is going on? Is it terrorists?”

Dean snorted, dropping his head to hide his smirk. Sam glared at the side of his face. “Doubtful, Sheriff. Do you think we can talk to the victim’s wife?”

“Molly’s in no state to talk. You can try, but she was in the room. He nearly stabbed her before stabbing himself. Screaming something about ‘the shadows’ and ‘the dark man’… Sounds like nonsense to me. But Greg was a good man. I don’t know why he’d do something like this.”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out, Sheriff,” Sam assured him.

He nodded. “You can try to talk to her now, she should be in the yard with her little boy. The boy doesn’t understand.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed a little. “You seem to know a lot about these guys, Sir.”

“Well this my town, Mr. Halford. I make it my business to know the families that I’m to protect. Wouldn’t you?”

Sam’s lips turned into a brief, hard smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Of course I would. We’ll go have a chat with Mrs. Lakemoore now. Thank you.”

They turned to walk back out but the Sheriff called out, “You boys, please figure this out. We can’t lose any more.”

Dean turned back and nodded once.

***

Sheriff Daniels was correct; getting anything but gibberish and sobs out of Molly Lakemoore was a near impossible task. Dean stepped aside, opting to speak to the responding officer and letting Sam take care of the hysterical woman.

“Ma’am, again, I’m so sorry – but you have to try and tell me – what was your husband talking about before he—“ Sam cut himself off, half afraid the word would start up a fresh bout of sobbing from the distraught wife.

“He—” She swallowed hard, sniffling and wiping her nose. “He told me the dark man was going to come for him tonight.”

“Do you know what he meant by that?”

“I have no idea. Greg was a good man, he—He wasn’t sad or anything.”

Sam wet his lips, thinking for a moment. “Did he ever mention any nightmares in the past few weeks, Molly?”

“Night—How did you know?”

Sam sighed softly, nodding. “Lucky guess. That’s all the questions I have for you now, but we may have to come back if we have more. Are you going to be okay?”

Molly smiled weakly and nodded. “I will. Thank you, Sir.”

He tried his best to smile and passed her his card. “If you remember anything new, give me a call. No matter how tiny.”

Sam turned to go to Dean, but stopped when he heard a gasp.

“Matt?”

Turning back around, he saw Molly looking frantically around. “Ma’am?”

“It’s my son! Matt’s wandered off,” She cried, wandering toward the back of the house.

Sam grabbed her and pushed her toward one of the officers. “It’s pitch black out there, Molly. You don’t wanna get lost too. We’ll find him.” Sam assured her. He waved his hand to Dean and a few of the other officers.

“The boy is missing,” was all he had to say before the officers fanned out, calling for Matt. “I’m gonna go to the stables and stuff – maybe he wanted to see the animals,” Sam told Dean. He nodded.

“I’ll check toward the road.”

The brothers separated, searching the night for the small child.

Sam kept up a quick jog, calling Matt’s name every few seconds. He realized the farther he got from the light of the house, the quieter the entire farm became. Within two minutes he could barely hear the other officers shouting for Matt, and the house was distant behind him.

The air wasn’t too cold, but Sam still felt goosebumps breaking out over his arms. The tickling on the back of Sam’s neck made his hunter’s instincts scream that he was being watched by someone or something.

In their profession, Sam was used to creepy feelings. They hunted monsters that hunted humans – it was only natural. Entering a vampire nest unprepared, searching a creaking basement for the remains of a seriously pissed off ghost – it was all just a natural fear response that the brothers had honed over their years on the road. But honing those skills usually meant  _ listening _ to those feelings.

Despite the urge to run the other way, Sam brushed off the eerie feeling and pulled out his flashlight, shining it around the fields. Off to the left were stables. The feeling of being watched increased tenfold as Sam stepped into the dark, covered building, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He shined the beam into each stable, turning up with nothing but rotting hay. The final stable had a resident: a decrepit looking horse was pressed against the far wall. After searching to make sure the boy wasn’t hiding under the horse’s legs, Sam moved on.

To their right was a wide field that was surely meant for at least fifty head of cattle, but only three cows stood in it, looking just as weak and near death as the Peterson’s cow had looked. He knew he’d seen a barn closer to the house, and prayed that Dean or the police officers would think to search it – back tracking through the pitch blackness was something Sam _ didn’t _ want to do tonight. Nearly at the end of the farm, Sam reached the chicken coops. He slipped inside the fence, grimacing at the slick feel of the ground under boots and the acrid smell of feces and urine hitting him full force.

The farmhouse was just a spot now; Sam figured he had to be a mile up at least by this point. It was as quiet as the dead. Not even the animals were making noise that Sam could hear. When he called Matt’s name, it sounded like screaming into the void.

Sam heard movement to his left and turned quickly, seeing a flash of black disappear behind the wooden wall of the coop.

“Matt?”

He approached slowly, fingers itching for the handle of his knife or the butt of his gun. This didn’t feel right. It most certainly didn’t feel like a child.

“Matt Lakemoore? It’s okay, I’m gonna bring you back to your Mom,” Sam tried again, crouching low. He could see a black lump that was too big to be an animal, pressed up against the side of the building.

Taking a shaky breath, Sam brought his flashlight up to shine it at the shadow.

Matt didn’t react at all to the light shining on the side of his face. He continued to stare straight ahead, his eyes wide and round. Pure terror.

“Matt? You okay buddy?” Sam asked quietly, moving toward the child.

Matt’s mouth opened. He blinked once. “He killed my Daddy.”

Gooseflesh broke out all over Sam’s body. “Who did, Matt?”

Instead of answering, Matt lifted his hand slowly. When he did, Sam could see deep scratches going along his arms, his fingernails caked in the crud lining the chicken coop.

Matt was pointing. Sam didn’t want to look. He wanted to turn tail and run the other way. Screw the family business, screw saving people, he wanted to run and grab Dean and hide under the blankets like he was four years old again and scared of the big bad wolf.

But Sam wasn’t four anymore. And he had a job to do. Steeling himself, he turned the flashlight beam to where Matt was pointing.

At first, Sam couldn’t figure out what he was looking at. It was black and small, certainly not big enough to kill a grown man like Greg Lakemoore. Then it clicked.

Sam was looking at a fat, black hen. She was nearly identical to the one at the Peterson residence, but this one had a neck of red feathers, making her look like she had been splashed with blood. Between her crooked, black legs sat a dark brown egg. It was so brown it was nearly black itself, and much bigger than any chicken egg Sam had ever seen.

“Matt, that’s a hen,” Sam said carefully.

The bird seemed to take notice of him when he spoke, cocking her small head to lay one beady black eye directly on him. Suddenly, with a squawk and a flurry of feathers, the hen leapt at Sam. She beat her wings to get some air and for a moment all Sam could see was black and red. A burning hot pain lit up the side of his face and Sam let out a loud shout, batting at the bird attacking and pecking at him.

“Sam!” Dean’s voice sounded too far away to be natural.

“Dean!” Sam shouted, earning himself a mouthful of feathers. He managed to shove the bird off him and scrambled for Matt, finding his arm and dragging him in the general direction of the gate. The flashlight had been lost in the scramble and there was something hot and wet in Sam’s eyes, so seeing anything was out of the equation. But he could hear. And right now he could hear that damn hen coming back for seconds.

Sam struck the wooden fence around the coop at rib level, nearly folding himself over it. Not thinking about anything else, he scooped up Matt and set him on the other side of the fence just as the hen caught up to him. He felt the sharp sting of her beak against his calf and turned on the creature. Never one to hurt animals, Sam felt a surge of guilt rush through him as he kicked the hen away from him. He hopped over the fence next to Matt just as flashlights shone over the top of the hill.

“Sam!”

“We’re okay, Dean! I got Matt!” Sam called. He crouched next to the young boy. “Matt, what did you mean about the hen killing your Daddy?”

“Not the birdie. The man with shadows on his skin.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You mean he’s got dark skin?”

“No – He’s very white. But he’s got shadows that live on his skin. He killed my Daddy and he says he’s gonna get me next. Man of the house gotta go so he can take the pretty wife. Man of the house gotta go. Gotta die.” Matt looked over at Sam as he spoke, his eyes round.

“Gonna get you too if you keep messing with him.”

A cold chill ran through Sam’s entire body. He barely noticed Dean approaching until the flashlight shone over his face. Two other officers were with him, and immediately went to Matt, making sure he was okay.

“Jesus, Sam, what happened?” Dean asked, pulling Sam upright and touching the deep gashes and holes on his cheeks and forehead.

He laughed a little. “You’re never gonna believe me.”

“Try me. You look like you just went ten rounds with a crazy craft lady.”

“A chicken.”

Dean’s face fell and he stepped back, shining the light in Sam’s face. “Did you just say a chicken?”

Sam nodded, wiping the blood out of his eyes. “Yeah Dean. I got attacked by a chicken.”

At least Dean tried not to laugh. Not that it worked. He broke down cackling within seconds, holding his stomach. Sam rolled his eyes deeply.

“Just… Let’s go home? I need a damn shower.”

Dean held up a finger, still laughing too hard to speak. “A chicken?” He gasped out between his cackles.

“Shut up, you friggin’ jerk,” Sam muttered. He shoved Dean out of the way and began to walk toward the farmhouse again, limping a little on the leg the hen had pecked.


	4. Visit to the Coroners

Dean was still laughing about the damn chicken the next day. When Sam ordered eggs for breakfast, Dean couldn’t resist making the joke about revenge on the hen that pecked him. It was funny – really – but when Sam was the one with a gash on his cheek that he worried would get infected – not so funny.

“So do you think this is our kind of case yet?” Sam asked after explaining the weird situation with Matt the evening before.

“I don’t know man. Do you think the kid coulda been making it up?”

“No, Dean – I really don’t. That chicken freaked out on us and neither me nor Matt were moving. We didn’t scare it. You know animals are sensitive to the supernatural. Maybe Matt was pointing at this dark dude or whatever.”

“But you didn’t see anything,” Dean clarified.

“No, I didn’t. Just the bird and her egg. But kids are more sensitive to that kind of stuff, especially kids who’ve just experienced trauma like Matt did. Maybe he saw something I couldn’t.”

“You’re reaching.”

“You didn’t see that little boy. He said the thing was coming for him, Dean. I don’t want to see that kid hurt.”

Dean sighed softly, pushing the remainder of his breakfast around lamely. “Alright, alright. We’ll check out the body. If it’s something possessing or forcing him into this maybe we can find a mark or something.”

“I think we need to look more into those nightmares too. Three of the victims were having nightmares about a man before they died, and at least two mentioned the man was raping them. I don’t know about Lakemoore.”

Dean grimaced at the mention of rape. “So what, some sort of pervert ghost?”

“Or an incubus. I don’t know.”

“An incubus? Sam, those don’t exist in America. Never have.”

“Maybe one immigrated.”

Dean pulled a face. “Great, I’ll check passport records.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed into one of his classic bitchfaces. “Just finish your breakfast so we can go to the morgue.”

***

“I can’t believe the CDC is investigating suicides,” The coroner said as he walked Sam and Dean back toward the morgue. He was a short, chubby little man with grey hair. He waddled a bit, reminding Sam of an aging penguin.

“We’re not sure they’re suicides actually,” Dean explained, doing his best to sound completely bored.

“Oh this was definitely a suicide, Sirs. I’ve been doing this job probably longer than you boys have been breathing air; I know a suicide when I see one. Course he was very determined, but it was a suicide.” The coroner’s voice raised two octaves as he defended his work to the brothers.

Sam held up his hand. “We don’t doubt that, Sir. What my partner meant was that we think the suicides could be caused by some sort of toxin that’s messing with the brain chemistry.”

“Well, I can have some tissue sent to the lab over in Billings for a tox screen if you’d like.”

Sam nodded eagerly. “That’d be awesome. Right now we’ll just take a look at the body.”

“Prepare yourself.” The coroner pulled out the drawer with a flourish and whipped back the sheet.

He wasn’t lying about needing to be prepared. If the Winchesters thought the bedroom was bad, the cause of it was even worse. There was a puncture in his left cheek, down low where it was clear he was aiming for the neck and missed.

There were additional punctures in four places on the neck, the final one turning into a jagged, gaping wound that ran all the way across the man’s throat, giving him a wide clown smile in a very wrong place.

“Who could do this?” Dean asked, his face pulled back into an uncomfortable grimace.

“Beats me. Do you know how painful this would be? That cheek puncture alone – Most people would have stopped right then. But then he moved down to this one, and then this one –“

The coroner went on, but Sam wasn’t listening. He was watching Dean, who was beginning to look more peaky each second. His skin was losing its color, eyes going a little glassy as he stared at the puncture wounds on Greg Lakemoore’s throat.

Sam stepped closer to Dean, nudging him a little. When Dean didn’t respond, Sam scowled, holding up a hand to silence the coroner. It was that moment that Dean’s legs gave out. Sam barely had time to catch him, preventing him from hitting his head on the floor.

The coroner gasped as Sam lowered Dean down gently, patting his cheeks. “Dean? Dean!”

“My, my, is he alright?”

Sam glanced up at the man and nodded. “He’s fine – sometimes this stuff gets him a little squeamish. Can you get me a cool washcloth?” The coroner rushed out of the room to comply.

“Hey, Dean, talk to me,” Sam said, patting Dean’s cheeks again. He tugged him upright and gave him a little shake, letting the majority of Dean’s body lean on his own.

Dean groaned, his eyes squeezing shut tightly. “What?” He slurred.

“Dean! Thank God, lost you for a second,” Sam said, sighing in relief. Dean blinked a few times before his eyes focused on Sam.

“What the hell?”

“You passed out. Staring at the vic. You got really pale and looked kinda scared, but you were… Somewhere else.”

Dean scowled for a second, but the lines on his face smoothed out when he realized what Sam meant. He nodded, trying to stand but Sam held tight.

“Lemme up,” He argued.

“Not a chance dude. You just passed out. If I hadn’t been right next to you, you would have hit the ground. What the hell happened?”

“Just zoned out and locked up my knees.”

“Liar.”

Dean swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing gently. “It’s nothing, Sam.”

“It’s Hell, isn’t it? Those marks in his throat made you think of Hell.”

Dean looked away, trying unsuccessfully to pull out of Sam’s grip once more. “Sam—“

“Don’t bother threatening me again. I wanna talk to you, Dean.”

“In the middle of the floor next to a dead body? Perfect timing, Sam.”

Sam sighed softly. “Not right now. But tonight or soon. I’m tired of putting it off.”

Dean’s shoulders slumped against Sam’s chest. “Fine,” He reluctantly admitted. Sam nodded, satisfied, and let him go just as the corner returned.

“He’s awake,” Sam said with a forced laugh. “I think we’re good though. Do you mind if we have a copy of that report?”

“I—Uh—Sure. I can—Uh—“

“Great, I’ll come get it in about half an hour. I’m gonna get him back to the hotel,” Sam said, cutting off the coroner as he guided Dean out of the morgue.


	5. What's With You?

“Would you stop staring at me like that, Sam?” Dean snapped. They’d been back in the hotel room for nearly an hour and Sam wouldn’t stop staring at him.

“I’m just worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“Then why won’t you talk to me?” Sam pressed again. Dean groaned loudly and threw his body back, rocking the chair he was sitting in onto two legs.

“Because I don’t want to. Shouldn’t you be doing something with this case you were so eager for us to take?”

Sam cocked his head a bit to the left, his gaze soft and pleading. Dean’s lip curled and he looked at the table. “Stop giving me that damn look.”

“I already said I’m worried about you,” Sam pressed.

“Yeah? Well don’t be.”

If it were possible, Sam’s expression became even more gentle and puppylike. Dean growled. “Look, yes. It made me think of the first soul I tortured in Hell under Alastair’s hand. Are you happy?”

“Of course I’m not happy, Dean. I wanna help you, but I can’t. Sometimes… Talking about it helps.”

“Not me.” Dean grumped, turning back to the table. Sam sighed softly, watching his brother with a worried expression.

“Come on, I wanna check out the Lakemoore’s farm again now that it’s daylight,” He said, eager to change the subject.

“Why? One tango with Chicken Little not enough for ya?” Dean teased, earning a glare.

“Shut up. I think there’s a connection to the farms.”

“Oh? Maybe they’re all farms?”

Sam looked at Dean silently for a moment, his expression showing nothing but frustration – maybe a light smattering of rage – before speaking. “No, smartass. They all have a single black hen. I did some research last night and it looks like they’re all the same breed too.”

“They’re all farms, Sam. In the same town. It makes sense that they’d have the same type of chicken.”

“The only healthy animal on the farm?”

“I—“ Dean scowled. “The only one? Really?”

“Yes. Three farms. Every animal nearly dead of malnourishment, but each one had this fat, healthy black hen.”

“So what, a cursed bird? Come on Sam – It’s a bird!”

“That attacked me and that boy for no damn reason!” Sam argued back, not willing to let this one slide. “I just wanna go have a closer look at it, okay?”

Dean threw his arms up in frustration. “Fine. Fine, you know what, fine. We’ll go look at the scary poultry.”

“Thank you,” Sam said, rising from the bed with a cocky smirk.

***

The Lakemoore residence seemed much less foreboding in the daylight. A quaint, almost cute little yellow one story house. It needed repainting, but everything about it screamed well loved home. The front fence contained a dying yard and a small patch of what was once a vegetable garden. Most of the plants in it were wilted, however, and Sam wasn’t sure he’d ever trust taking a bite out of one of them.

“Do you wanna go talk to Molly while I check out the chicken coop?” Sam asked.

“Nah, don’t want Ginger the Hen going back for seconds.”

“You’re an ass.”

Dean shrugged, pouting out his mouth in a way that was supposed to be endearing – but kind of made Sam want to punch him square in the lips.

They made their way up to the front porch, startling a little when the door was ripped open before Sam could knock.

Molly gasped, her features haggard. She had an enormous bag of garbage in one hand, still wearing the same outfit that she’d had on the night before. Now that it was daylight, little flecks of dried blood could be seen across the chest of it.

“Mrs. Lakemoore, are you alright?” Sam asked, immediately concerned for the expression on her face.

“What happened to my life?” She whispered before pushing past them. She headed to the garbage can, holding her stomach as she did.

It only took a split second and Dean was down the stairs. He gently touched her shoulder. “Please, let me?” He offered, pointing to the bag. Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m pregnant, I’m not disabled.”

Dean’s smile was genuine. “No, of course not. You could probably kick my butt with your eyes closed. But you did just lose your husband. I know sometimes we need a little help when we’re grieving, even those people that are tough as nails. Please? We gotta be here anyway, so I’d be glad to help out.”

Molly’s shoulders sank a little, her eyes welling with tears. “Thank you.”

Dean took the garbage from her carefully and squeezed her shoulder. “Why don’t you go in with my partner, take a load off.”

She nodded again and headed back toward the house slowly.

Sam couldn’t help the swell of emotion for his brother. Dean was a dick sometimes, but he was the most kind soul Sam had ever come across. When Molly reached the stairs, Sam offered his hand to her. “How’s Matt?” He asked carefully.

She shook her head. “Not so good. He was okay for a while, and he didn’t see his father’s body or anything, but now he’s just… Different.”

“Maybe the shock finally hit him?” Sam suggested.

“No,” Molly said, shaking her head again, “This isn’t shock. This is… He’s acting like his father,” She said softly, “Before his suicide.”

Sam swallowed thickly.

_ ‘He killed my Daddy and he says he’s gonna get me next…’ _

“I can talk to him, see what’s going on, if you’d like?” Sam offered. That feeling from the night before was back, drawing goosebumps onto his arms under his jacket. He glanced around the residence, searching for anything that could be watching. The child, an animal – nothing was visible.

“Please. He seems to like you. Talked about you a little after you guys left. Come on, I’ll make you some coffee,” She offered as Dean headed back up the steps.

As they reached the door, a siren drew their attention. They turned in time to see an ambulance and two police cruisers speeding down the dirt road.

Sam held out his hands for the keys at the same moment Dean tossed them. “You good here?” He asked. Dean gave one nod and Sam jogged down the pathway, hurrying to the car.

“Keep in contact!” Dean warned. Sam threw a thumbs up over his head as he slid behind the wheel of the Impala and headed down the road, chasing the ambulance.

***

Dean’s phone rang while he was on his knees, helping Molly gather eggs from the chicken coop. The black hen that had attacked Sam was still there, and dammit if she didn’t look like she was glaring at Dean as he snagged the odd brown eggs she was nestled near.

He pulled his head out of the coop, relieved to be able to breathe air that wasn’t thick with feathers, sand, and feces, and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Sam?”

“Jake Ryan is dead.” Sam’s voice was haggard and rough – it sounded like he’d been crying.

“Jake Ryan? That’s the son isn’t it?” Dean asked, passing the basket to Molly. Her eyes bulged at the name.

“The Ryan boy? Is he okay?”

Dean gave her a sympathetic look and shook his head. Molly gasped, covering her mouth.

“He slit his throat with a razorblade. Dean, you can’t tell me this is all a coincidence.”

“No, I wouldn’t say it is. Come on back and get me, we’ll talk more at the hotel.”

Dean hung up with Sam and smiled sadly at Molly, who looked close to tears. “He killed himself, didn’t he?” Molly whispered.

Dean nodded, looking at the ground. “Yeah, he did.”

“Slit his throat.”

Dean nodded again. “Same way everyone else has been doing it.”

“And it’s only the males?”

“Looks that way.”

“The next boy in line is mine. Matt.”

Dean locked gazes with her. “We won’t let that happen, Molly. I will do everything I can to keep your son safe. And you.”

She smiled softly, rubbing her stomach. “And her?”

Dean’s smile grew. “Definitely her. Does she have a name yet?”

“No. Greg and I—” Her voice broke for a second and she swallowed hard. “Greg and I weren’t going to name her until after she was born.”

Dean nodded. “Well I’m sure she’ll be beautiful. Take after her mother.”

Molly shook her head and patted Dean’s arm. “Flirting with a grieving widow the day after her husband’s suicide won’t get you anywhere, son. And flirting with a woman twice your age won’t either.”

Dean grinned at her; the charming grin he reserved for dates, police officers, and occasionally Sam, when he wanted to get his way. “Just trying to make you smile. It worked.”

Molly rolled her eyes, but even she had to agree. “Okay, Dean. Let’s go inside and wait for your brother. I’ll cook up some of these eggs for us, if you’re hungry.”

“I never turn down a home cooked meal.” Dean agreed.


	6. Dean's Nightmare

“Sam?” Dean’s voice sounded strange to his ears, watered down and far away.

“Shh, Dean. Just relax.” Sam was standing over him, tugging the blankets off.

“What? Sam, stop it,” Dean grumbled. Why was it so dark in the room? Didn’t they leave the bathroom light on? He tugged the blankets back from Sam, who let out an almost inhuman growl. Dean froze.

“I said relax, Dean,” Sam repeated, his voice rasping like dried cornstalks. That wasn’t Sam.

“Who are you?”

Dean was pressed to the bed before the final syllable left his mouth. In the darkness, he could just make out Sam’s face – strong jaw; his teeth were clenched, wide nose and shaggy hair falling down, framing his face. His eyes. They were wrong. All wrong. Sam had kaleidoscope eyes. Sam’s eyes were soft and gentle. Sam’s eyes won them free food and solved cases. These weren’t Sam’s eyes. These eyes were cold marbles shining in an invisible light. These eyes were yellow and black and green, sharp and cruel. These could never be the eyes he’d grown up looking into.

“You know who I am, Dean.”

“Sam – stop. You’re not Sam.”

The thing with Sam’s face grinned wide then, his teeth glinting in the invisible light. They were Sam’s teeth – but that wasn’t Sam’s smile. Dean’s brother could never smile so cruelly.

“But I am. Don’t you know? Don’t you remember what I’m meant to become? You don’t know what I do in the dark, Dean. You don’t know what I do when you’re not around. You think you do. You think me exorcising demons is the worst of it… But you have no idea. Can you be so sure I haven’t already embraced my destiny? I’m just hiding it from you. Lying to you.”

“No,” Dean’s body went cold at the thought. “Sam would never do that.”

“How do you know? Haven’t I before? I lied about Ruby. I lied about using my powers. I’ve lied about a lot of things Dean. What’s one more? You don’t know what I did when you were gone, Dean. You don’t know how many souls I tortured on Earth, while you were torturing in Hell. Would you like to know? Would you like to hear how they screamed?”

Sam leaned down, hissing the final word in Dean’s ear. It was barely above a whisper, dry like the rasp of shed snake skin.

Dean looked around as well as he could, searching for any clue as to what the hell was going on. There was something on Sam’s arms – no – those were shadows. But there shouldn’t be shadows. It was nearly pitch black in the room. They were dancing, curling up like tendrils of fire along his forearms.

“P—Please, Sam. Stop it.”

“No.” Sam popped back up, those cold, icicle eyes meeting Dean’s once more. “Because there’s one final thing I need to do to earn my place in Hell.”

“W—What?”

“Prove that my brother means nothing to me.”

Dean’s brows furrowed at that. Before he could process what Sam could possibly mean, Sam flipped him over, ripping the blanket off his body quickly.

When Dean realized what was happening, he began to struggle against Sam, bucking and kicking wildly. Sam wasn’t this strong – shouldn’t be this strong. Even with how big Sam was now Dean could always get him off his back like this.

Sam twisted Dean’s arms back painfully, crossing them at the wrists and tying them with a rough, scratchy rope. Where the hell did he get rope?

Dean shouted into his pillow, protesting as much as he could. He continued to thrash despite the pain it was causing his arms. When his boxers were pulled down over the curve of his ass, Dean lost control. He threw himself around as much as he could, almost managing to get onto his back before Sam grabbed the back of his neck. He shoved Dean’s face hard into the pillow, making it hard to breathe and even harder to fight.

Sam’s touch was too cold. Why was he so cold? Wide, dry fingers forced their way into Dean’s resisting ass, stretching him open.

This couldn’t be happening.

Hot tears ran down Dean’s cheeks, soaking the pillow underneath him. This was Sam. This was the little boy he carried out of their burning home. The toddler he taught to walk and tie shoelaces. The preteen he taught to shoot and flirt with girls. The teenager he watched graduate. The college boy he picked up from school. The brother he went to Hell for. This was his Sam.

“No!” Dean’s voice was far away. It didn’t sound like it was coming from his throat.

But Sam’s voice was right there, whispering in his ear, his mouth panting burning hot against his skin. “Don’t bother fighting it, Dean. I know what you think about in the dark. I know what you hide deep down inside you like a festering wound. I know all your secrets. You’re bare to me.”

Sam’s cock was enormous. Dean screamed against the pillow, still pinned at the neck by Sam’s palm, his hips held down by Sam’s wide thighs. It was splitting him open. White-hot pain raced up Dean’s spine, firing nerves and causing a reaction in every inch of his body. His fingers and toes went numb. His stomach flipped and twisted, pushing acid bile up his throat. He gagged, a sickening gulping burp erupted from his open mouth. He was going to puke. He couldn’t puke. If he puked he’d drown. There was barely enough space to breathe as it was. Dean forced his mouth to close, gritting his teeth so hard it hurt. But nothing hurt worse than his ass.

Pushing deeper and deeper, Sam’s cock spread his hole wider and wider; this was humanly impossible. Dean’s entire body tingled with oversensitivity. His treacherous cock jumped, trying to get hard, trapped between his stomach and the bed. A broken sob escaped Dean’s locked jaw, more tears dampening the pillow under his face. Not like this.

Dean wanted to scream but was afraid to open his mouth. If he opened his mouth he could puke. Or beg. Or cry.

It couldn’t get worse, Dean figured. And then Sam began to move. Long, deep thrusts that burned from the inside out, made Dean feel like his guts were being pushed and pulled into new places, and ached. His body couldn’t take this. Maybe he’d just die. Would dying be preferable to this? Dean thought yes.

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was softer than before, farther away. Dean gave a broken sob through closed lips once more. He didn’t want to answer the thing that his brother had become.

“Dean,” Louder this time, closer. Dean shook his head as well as he could with the pressure on his neck, but Sam began to shake him, still pounding into him at a quick pace. Why was he shaking him like that?

“Dean.” Sam came hard, spilling hot into Dean’s abused hole. It stung internal tears and warmed his belly. It was the most sickening thing that Dean had ever felt in his life. He was still being shaken.

“Dean!”

Dean’s eyes snapped open and he dragged in a breath of air. His throat was scratchy and dry, like he’d been shouting for hours. He was on his back. How did he get onto his back? Sam was still over him, staring down at him.

Before he could stop himself, Dean let out a shout of fear and panic. He thrashed against Sam, clawing at his face and neck. Sam yelled, stumbling backwards onto his own bed. He threw his arms up in front of his face as Dean rose, grabbing the knife under his pillow.

The scratch from the hen’s attack earlier was bleeding again where Dean had nicked it, and Sam had a deep gouge from Dean’s short nails across the base of his throat.

“Dean, stop!” Sam pleaded. “It was a nightmare!”

The words stopped Dean for a moment. He still held the knife in front of him, ready to stab if Sam lunged at him. “Let me see your face,” He whispered.

Sam lowered his arms carefully, meeting Dean’s gaze. His eyes were soft in the low light seeping through from the open bathroom door. Copper, green, and blue, they were round and wet with unshed tears of pain and fear. His expression screamed worry for his brother. Dean could see his hands shaking as they rested on his lap, afraid to move and incite another attack.

“Sam?”

“Yeah, Dean, you were having a nightmare – you were screaming and thrashing, I—I wanted to wake you up so you didn’t hurt yourself.”

“Oh God, Sam,” Dean rushed to the bathroom then, voiding the contents of his stomach into the toilet.

Even after he finished, Dean was afraid to move from his spot. He could still feel Sam’s hands on his neck, on his ass. His ass was on fire and his body ached in all the worst places. Dean reached back and slid a shaking hand into his boxers. He brushed over his ass and groaned; it felt bruised and swollen. Taking a deep breath, he spread his ass open and let the tip of one finger graze his hole.

The pain had him puking again. He yanked his hand away, slamming it against the side of the toilet as he gagged on bile, his stomach empty.

“Dean?” Sam’s voice was quiet. Dean dared a glance back, half afraid the other Sam would be standing there.

“I’m okay,” Dean croaked.

“No, you’re not. What did you dream about?”

Dean hung his head, his eyes closed. “Just Hell,” He lied.

“It was worse than your Hell nightmares,” Sam argued.

Dean heard him step into the bathroom. The water turned on. Sam crouched next to him and reached out. Dean could see him from the corner of his eye, and Sam looked scared. The cut had started to scab over again, but the blood was still there, as well as the droplets of blood from the scratch on his throat.

“Sorry I freaked out on you,” Dean whispered, guilt threatening another bout of vomit.

“Not a big deal. ‘Tis but a scratch,” Sam tried, his mouth curling into a smile. Dean snorted, unable to help the weak smile that crossed his own face.

Sam reached out again, braver now, and ran the cool cloth over Dean’s face and cheeks. “You sounded like you were in pain.”

“I don’t wanna talk about it, Sammy.”

“Are you really okay, Dean?”

“I’m good.”

Sam’s jaw clenched; Dean knew Sam didn’t believe him, but he couldn’t – he couldn’t tell Sam about this nightmare. Not until he knew what it meant.


	7. Molly Lakemoore

Nothing was better in the morning light. Dean’s ass still ached, a deep, dull throb that reminded him of his nightmare whenever he moved.

He hadn’t slept the remainder of the night. Instead, he chose to think about the nightmare, commit it to memory, as disturbing as it was. Everything dream-Sam had said and done, every feeling, every sight and smell and taste. Maybe it meant something. Maybe he was just losing his mind. Better to know ahead of time, he figured.

Currently they were sitting in a small diner, eating breakfast. Well, Sam was eating. Dean had opted for some black coffee and nothing else. It took him a moment to realize Sam had been speaking, and was now waiting patiently for his response.

“What?”

Sam’s head tilted, that dimple appearing in his cheek. “You okay, man? You look awful.”

“Just didn’t sleep too well after the nightmare.”

“Why didn’t you wake me back up? We coulda played cards or something.”

“No, one of us needed rest.”

Sam scowled a little but pressed the issue no further. Instead, he changed the subject. “So I was saying at least one of us should go back out to Molly’s today. I think she’s right about her kid being next. But I can’t figure out if there’s anyone else.”

“Do you have any clue what it is?”

Sam shook his head slowly. “Not with the info we have. I mean we know it’s so far only male victims, and it seems to take the oldest male in the household first then works its way down. We know it gives the men nightmares, probably all the same one but we can’t know for sure – “

“And that nightmare, what was it again?”

“Um, the wives have said their husbands complained of a nightmare about being raped by a man with shadows on his skin. Matt backed that up by adding that it was a white man but there were shadows living on his skin – I can only assume it’s the same creature.”

“But nothing in the lore fits that?”

Sam shook his head, pushing his plate out of the way. “No. I mean if we’re talking sex there’s the incubus and succubus, but I’ve never heard of one going after the same gender that it is.”

“So what, monsters can’t be gay now? What kind of stereotype is that?” Dean tried to joke. Sam rolled his eyes deeply, taking a sip of his coffee before continuing.

“Anyway, I think we should talk to Matt again. It seems like these nightmares start at least a few days before the victim attempts suicide. If Matt is next, maybe he’s already started having the nightmares. He could give us more information.”

“He’s six, Sam.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked, blinking owlishly at Dean.

“If he’s having nightmares about being raped – do we really wanna bring that to the forefront of his mind? Don’t you think that might traumatize him?”

“The nightmares won’t traumatize him in the first place?”

“Sam – I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that.”

“What else can we do, Dean?”

“Protect the damn kid! Don’t make him think about shit like that, that’s terrible. Christ, Sam – are you some sort of monster?” Dean slapped the table hard enough to startle Sam. He rose and stormed toward the bathroom, leaving Sam staring after him, stunned.

***

The ride to the Lakemoore house was tense and silent. Dean hadn’t come out of the bathroom until Sam had paid and was sitting in the car for nearly ten minutes. When he did, he’d said nothing, only started the car and began to drive.

Once they reached the house, Sam looked over at his brother. “We won’t talk to Matt about the nightmares, okay?”

“Thank you,” Dean said, his voice short and clipped. He got out of the car without another word.

The house was strangely silent as the brothers approached it. The air felt heavy and wet – too thick to be natural in the dry Montana autumn.

“Molly?” Dean called against the door. Sam knocked hard. Silence. Dean reached out, trying the doorknob and finding it unlocked.

They looked at each other, hunter’s instincts kicking in immediately. Both withdrew their guns, arguments set aside as they fell into formation, Sam to the right and slightly behind Dean as Dean pushed the door open with his foot, gun raised and ready to fire.

The living room was silent. But it was a mess. At first glance, it was in worse condition than it had been after Greg Lakemoore’s suicide. The couch was turned upside down, the cushions dragged across the room and ripped open, scattering fluffy yellow foam everywhere. The coffee table and bookshelves resembled kindling, though no axe could be found. The television screen was shattered, electronic tubing and other innards hanging out of it like some futuristic gutted monster.

Everywhere the Winchesters stepped a broken knickknack crunched under foot. Books were scattered everywhere, pages ripped out and a few even charred from burning. As they wandered further into the living room, they noticed the plaster on the walls and ceiling was cracked and gouged like some giant dog had clawed at it.

Dean knew it wasn’t in that condition when he left yesterday. He’d spent a majority of the evening helping Molly clean the living room – aside from the rug needing a thorough vacuuming – it was spotless.

They pressed in a little further, peeking in the kitchen. It was a mess as well. In addition to the dishes that were shattered, cupboard doors were torn from their hinges, chairs overturned and the fridge was wide open. Milk and cranberry juice had spilled onto the floor to create a curdled, slimy mess. Flies were everywhere once again. How could flies swarm that fast?

Dean forced down the shudder that crawled up his spine like the ice cold fingers from his nightmare. He continued walking down the hallway, the air getting thicker and colder as they continued.

He glanced back at Sam and mouthed, ‘EMF?’

Sam shifted his gun to one hand, digging the other in his pocket. He flipped on the EMF meter and shook his head – silence. Not a ghost.

They continued on. The bathroom was empty, though the medicine cabinet was wide open, the mirror shattered. Pills and glass were scattered all over the white linoleum. The Lakemoore’s bedroom was also empty, and surprisingly untouched. The carpet was missing: ripped up before they’d arrived yesterday. The mirror had been removed and the walls scrubbed clean – but otherwise, it was in perfect condition. One room left.

Dean reached Matt’s door first. He pushed it open slowly with the toe of his boot. The smell hit them both, causing Dean to stagger back against Sam’s body, biting back the gag that threatened to push his earlier coffee back up the way it went down.

Sam took a deep breath and pushed the door open the rest of the way, pushing Dean into the room as he entered close behind.

Molly was lying in the middle of the floor. Blood was pooled between her legs, thick and dark, almost brown. The previously sky blue carpet was matted down from the main point of the blood, a deep purple that had to have soaked straight into the wood. From the start of her pubis all the way up to her breast bone was a deep slice that left a gaping hole, her light yellow dress shredded by the weapon. Her organs had already begun to swell and fester, intestines spilling over the ragged edges of her withering flesh in loose knots. Her stomach bulged out and up, covering her ribcage and looking a pinprick away from popping. The buzz of flies looking for their new meal filled the otherwise silent air in the room.

Her throat was slit in a jagged pattern similar to her husband’s wounds, covered with congealing blood but not hiding the bright pink of her trachea, gouged open like the knife had gotten stuck going through it.  A carving knife lay next to her outstretched hand, the bit of silver through the blood glinting off the sunlight streaming through the window.

Molly’s mouth was open in a silent scream, jaw hanging at a crooked, dislocated angle. Her previously bright blue eyes – Dean had noticed how beautiful they were the day prior – were a dull, clouded grey now, stuck forever open as she took in the sight of her killer.

Both Dean and Sam looked away as soon as they could. Their eyes met, grimaces clear on both faces.

“Where’s Matt?” Sam whispered.

“And the baby,” Dean added. Sam cocked his head. “Molly was due in two weeks – that baby could still be alive,” He explained. Sam’s eyes bulged.

Both Winchesters rushed toward the front door, Sam pulling out his phone. He called the sheriff first: in a small town like this it was just as good as calling 911. He explained the situation as quickly as he could, rushing out the door behind Dean.

“Matt!” Dean screamed toward the farm. It was still eerily silent. Sam hung up just as they stopped short, surveying the land.

“I’ll go left you go right?” Sam offered.

“Wait,” Dean held up his hand. “Listen.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. Both men leaned forward, straining to hear. Silence all around and then—

“That’s a baby crying.”

“It’s coming from near the chicken coop,” Sam agreed.

They broke into a dead run, racing past the stables and fields, up the hill toward the coop. The mud under their feet threatened to spill them both on their asses, stumbling as they climbed toward the source of the noise.

Dean didn’t miss the fact that the cows and horses were dead, scattered on the decaying grass like fallen game pieces – they’d all been alive the day before.

“Matt!” Sam screamed as loudly as he could.

“Matt! It’s Sam and Dean! We’re here to keep you safe!” Dean shouted right after.

Sam, who’d gained a slight lead on Dean while they ran, stopped short about ten feet from the coop. Dean slammed directly into his back, swearing at him.

“Shh,” Sam snapped, holding up hand. They could hear whimpering from near the coop – Matt was definitely there, and chances were the baby was as well. The concerning thing, however, was what was surrounding the chicken coop.

Splashed like some sort of morbid child’s drawing was blood, thick and deep red in the afternoon light, glinting off the sun in some areas where it had pooled rather than soaking into the ground.

Dean motioned for Sam to go around one side of the coop while he went around the other. Sam nodded. After working together their entire lives they were like a machine, each knowing how the other moved and what they were going to do.

They circled the building in sync, guns raised but cautious, neither wanting to shoot by accident. Around the back side of the coop, both brothers lowered their guns. Sitting on the ground, shaking and whimpering was Matt, covered in blood. He was holding the baby, still bloody, wrapped in one of his t-shirts. The baby was whimpering, sucking on one of his fingers.

“Dean,” Sam said softly. He bobbed his head toward where Matt was staring, directly in front of him. The fat black hen that had attacked Sam the few nights previous was sitting, staring at Matt and the infant.

“Matt, can you get up?” Dean asked carefully, leveling his gun at the chicken. He could hear sirens approaching in the distance.

“N—No. If I move, the man will get me.”

“Okay. We’ll come to you.”

Matt gave a broken sob. “He sees you. He’s already got a piece of you, Dean. He’s gonna take the rest.”

A block of ice settled in Dean’s stomach at those words. The nightmare came back full force, the shadows on Sam’s arms, the icy touch of his fingers.

“Nobody’s gonna take you or Dean,” Sam’s voice cut through Dean’s thoughts and drew his attention.

“Sam—“

“Just stay still, Dean. We can’t fire a gun near the baby, it could deafen her,” Sam said, slowly approaching Matt. He tucked his gun away, freeing both hands.

“Wh—What are you doing?” Matt asked.

“I’m going to get in front of you and pick up you and your sister, okay? The man can’t touch you if I’m there, right?”

“He—He’ll get you too. He’ll kill you.”

“He won’t. Dean won’t let him. You just stay calm okay? And when I get in front of you, you stand up and let me pick you guys up. Keep a hold of your sister.”

Matt whimpered but nodded quickly, pulling the baby a little tighter to him.

“Sam, you’re gonna get killed,” Dean warned.

“It’s a chicken, Dean.”

“No, it isn’t.”

Sam hesitated, meeting Dean’s gaze. He clenched his jaw then and narrowed his eyes; Sam’s ‘we’re discussing this later’ expression. Dean cleared his throat and shifted his gun, steadying it on the hen.

The bird lunged at the same time Sam did. He managed to get in front of Matt and the baby just in time; the bird slammed into his lower back and began to peck and claw wherever it could reach. Sam smacked at the feathered assailant a few times before scooping up Matt.

“Keep a hold on your sister,” He warned before taking off at a run toward the opening in the fence. The bird chased close after, but Dean was quicker. He managed the get himself front of the bird and gave it a hard kick, sending it flying back toward the other end of the coop. He turned and followed after Sam, helping him place Matt and the baby on the other side of the fence just as Sheriff Daniels came up the top of the hill.

“Oh thank God,” He said, placing his hands on his knees, short of breath.

“He’s okay, Sheriff. I think the baby is too, but we didn’t have time to look. Probably pretty hungry and cold,” Sam said, setting his hand on Matt’s shoulder.

The Sheriff nodded, motioning to another officer to come up and take the children to the police car. He turned to Sam and Dean. “Thank you boys, for looking for the kiddo.”

“Our pleasure. After what we saw in there – He couldn’t be left alone,” Dean said, the tremor in his voice unmistakable. Fear.

“I know – I—I looked. It’s awful. Who could do that to themselves?”

“Are we sure she did it to herself?” Sam asked carefully.

Daniels shook his head. “Can’t be sure until we ask Matt. But if it was a suicide… You boys better get working on figuring out what’s going on in this town. That’s more suicides in two weeks than we’ve had in eight years.”

Both Winchesters nodded. “We’re working as hard as we can, Sheriff,” Sam assured him.

He nodded and walked off toward the house.

Sam looked over at Dean. “You’re gonna talk to me.”

“Not now, Sam.” Dean began to walk to the house as well, but Sam kept up with him easily.

“Yes right now. You said that dream was about Hell. It wasn’t. It was the monster we’re hunting, isn’t it? You got hit.”

“No, Sam.”

“Then why did Matt say that?”

“Because he’s six! Because he’s a scared little boy!” Dean snapped, stopping and throwing his arms out. “My nightmares are none of your business!”

With that he picked up a quick pace again. “I heard you say my name in your sleep, Dean,” Sam called from behind him. Dean slowed to a stop, but didn’t turn around.

“I heard you begging for me to stop doing something. That’s what woke me up. I didn’t push it last night because you were freaked out. But I’m pushing it now. What did that monster make you see?”

Dean turned around slowly. Sam was still standing where he had been on the hill, looking down at Dean now. His jaw was set, the wind slightly ruffling his hair. Even angry like this, Dean noticed his eyes were still gentle. Still his Sammy. The Sam that didn’t deserve to have this burden.

“It wasn’t about you, Sam.”

Sam snorted and shook his head, rolling his eyes. “Fine. Don’t tell me.” He began to walk toward Dean, stopping next to him. Without looking over at him, he spoke again,

“But this monster is making people kill themselves, Dean. I can’t help you. I can’t keep you alive if you don’t let me in.” He brushed past his big brother and made his way down to the police cruisers.


	8. What Is This Thing?

“So what the hell do we have? I thought the monster was killing males only,” Dean said when they were sitting in the hotel room that evening. Sam shrugged, shaking his head as he flipped through webpages.

“No idea.”

They hadn’t discussed the nightmare again after leaving the farm. To make matters worse, Matt had stopped speaking entirely when he went with the officers. Even Sam and Dean couldn’t get him to say a word. Daniels assumed the shock finally set it – but the brothers suspected something more malevolent.

“Okay.” Dean rose and sat next to Sam, dragging over a notepad. He began to scrawl out their information. “We’ve got black hens with those freaky brown eggs, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And nightmares involving a white dude with shadows on his skin raping the victim.”

“Three known cases of nightmares and two confirmed rape nightmares, yeah. We don’t know if the Lakemoore’s dreamed of being raped, or if Molly had nightmares at all.”

“Right. We got all suicides, and all by slitting the throat, right?”

“Yeah, but that could just be convenience – easiest thing.”

“Not always, remember the pills from the Lakemoore house? Some of those were oxycodone pills. I remember Molly telling me about an injury Greg had had a while back, they must have been left over from that injury.”

“How do you know what Oxy pills look like?”

“I’m not stupid, Sam. Anyway – it’d be easier to OD on those than to slit your own throat.”

“But she didn’t want to hurt the baby.”

“But what about Greg?”

Sam shrugged and nodded. “Okay, slitting throats could be a possible connection. They’re all farmers and all their animals are dying except that hen.”

Dean nodded, scrawling it down. “Now, what was some of the stuff Matt said about this invisible dude?”

The brothers worked for a few hours, writing down different possible connections and searching for information. At nearly midnight, Sam slumped back, rubbing his eyes.

“I’m absolutely beat, Dean. Let’s stop tonight, we’ll pick it back up in the morning.”

“Go to bed, I’m good.”

Sam scowled. “Dude, you’ve got bags under your eyes and I think they’re Michael Kors.”

Dean’s eyebrows went up. “They’re who's now?”

“It’s a brand of bag. Just – Go to bed, Dean.”

“How the hell do you know about brands of bags, Sam? Got something you’re not telling me?”

“Yeah, Jess liked them and I bought her one for her birthday before she died,” Sam snapped. He turned his head back to the laptop screen, tapping the keys a little harder than necessary.

Dean’s heart sank a little. It’d been over four years since Jess’ death, but it still stung Sam a little – especially when Dean made comments like that. “Sam—I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

“I know you didn’t. It’s fine. Here, I brought up a page on lore involving black hens, maybe you can figure out a connection. I’m going to bed.” Sam slid the laptop over to Dean and rose, stripping out of his shirt before flopping onto the bed, his back to his brother.

Dean sighed softly, still feeling badly about his mistake. He shook his head and turned back to the screen, trying to find something to help decipher what the hell this creature was.


	9. Hello Again, Dean

“Dean.”

Dean jumped a little. He’d been zoning out on the computer screen – maybe he was more tired than he thought. Looking over, he saw Sam sitting up on his bed, gaze lowered to the ground.

“What’s up, Sammy? Thought you were tired.”

“He’s gonna kill Matt next.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The monster is going to kill Matt. He’s going to make Matt slit his throat and watch the blood pour down his shirt as slowly dies. Do you know what it feels like to die from blood loss, Dean?”

Goosebumps raised on Dean’s arms at his brother’s words. A cold chill seemed to have settled in the room, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. “What’re you sayin’, Sam? Why are you talking like this?”

“Matt’s small, you know? He’s only about fifty pounds. That means only about three or four pints of blood in his whole body. That’s not much. How much blood have we spilled, Dean. Gallons. A couple of pints – “ Sam laughed, but it wasn’t the laugh Dean was used to. It was cold, sharp like breaking glass. It wasn’t Sam’s laugh.

“He only needs to lose about two pints of blood before he dies. Now see, he’s going to slit his throat, just like his Daddy, and Mommy. He’s going to be dead in seconds. But you see, time slows down a little for someone when they know they’re going to die. He’ll be able to watch the blood run down his shirt for a second and he’ll get woozy, kinda funny feeling. Dizzy. Then cold. It gets so cold when you bleed too, even though you’ve got all this nearly hundred-degree blood pouring down your skin. It’s because your body can’t keep up its temperature without the help of the blood pumping. So, the more you lose, the colder you get. That means he’ll start shivering then he’ll pass out. Depending on where he does it – probably the bathroom – he’ll bang his head off the floor. Crack his skull open maybe – that’s such a sickening noise. Course he’ll be dead by the time his body lands, so no big deal.”

Dean’s throat clicked. “You’re not Sam.”

“When did you figure that out?” Sam – or the thing that looked like Sam – raised his head. Those cold, marble eyes stared out of Sam’s head, jaw set in a cruel grimace that Sam would never wear.

“What did you do with my brother?”

“Same thing I did with him last night. Nothing. I’m not inside of him yet. But I will be. Soon.”

“A nightmare. I fell asleep and I’m dreaming.” Dean wet his lips. “Who are you?”

The Sam lookalike sneered. “I’m Sam. The Sam that’s meant to be. That will be.”

“No. Sam won’t go dark.”

“How can you be sure?” Sam rose from the bed, stalking toward Dean like a lion stalking his prey.

Dean held his ground, wishing desperately for a way out. “Because I know my brother.”

Sam laughed that broken glass laugh again. “Yeah, you know your brother. You knew he was going to abandon you and your father for college then, right?”

“He didn’t abandon us,” Dean muttered, his stomach aching at the memory.

“No? What would you call it?”

“He got out. Okay? I chose to stay, that’s not on Sam. It was my choice.” Dean stood, going chest to chest with the lookalike. “Who are you?”

Sam grabbed Dean’s shoulders. His hands were still icy, even through the two layers Dean was wearing. The touch brought back memories of the attack from the night before. “I’m your lover now. I own you, Dean.”

“Nobody owns me,” Dean growled, forcing himself to look into the creature’s eyes. There were too many shadows on his skin. They were moving wrong; Dean didn’t know why he didn’t notice it before.

“I do,” Sam’s voice was barely above a whisper, scratching like sandpaper on wood. “I can make you do anything I want.”

“You forced those men to kill themselves. Why Molly, huh? Why her, she wasn’t a man. She wasn’t your normal victim.”

Sam smirked. “You think I killed her? No. I wanted her as my bride. I love the women and she was pregnant. Two for one. Baby souls are just so delicious. The boy killed her.”

“Matt? No. He’s a good kid.”

Sam’s grin grew wider, canines bared. Dean grimaced; his little brother’s face shouldn’t be twisted like that. “He’s a good boy. That’s why he killed her. He knew when I claimed his soul that she’d be next. She’d become my bride, as would his precious baby sister. But see, he couldn’t kill the baby. He tried. Oh, he tried. He held the knife to that sobbing infant’s throat – but he couldn’t do it. So, he ran. But no one can outrun me once I mark them.”

He slid his hand down Dean’s arm and around, squeezing his ass. “Can you feel my mark, Dean? Burning deep within you? So many people get it wrong. They call me such names – compare me to those scum demons the incubi and the succubae. But I am so much cleverer. No one can escape my hold on their soul.”

“You—Last night wasn’t a dream.”

“Outwardly – yes. Your precious baby brother had no idea that you were being bred by me. But to you – forever – you’ll bear my mark deep within the pit of your belly. It will call to you.” He squeezed again and moved his hand up, dipping his fingers into the top of Dean’s jeans.

Dean jerked back, trying to wiggle away. “Get off me. I’m going to kill you.”

“You don’t have any clue what I am,” Sam whispered, tightening his grip on Dean’s arm. He brought his other hand up and stroked it over Dean’s cheek. “And that terrifies you. You smell so good when you’re scared.”

Sam’s palm was covered with thin, dancing shadows, curling around his fingers and up into the cuff of his shirt.

Dean swallowed hard. “Get off me.”

“I think you need to learn a lesson. See – I control you, Dean.”

“Why go after me? I don’t have a woman in my life for you to eat.”

Sam’s grin grew. “You misunderstand me. I don’t choose my brides based on their sex. Brides is too confining of a term. Spouse perhaps, though it’s an unwilling partnership for the most part. And a short one. No – I choose a man who has a deep, abiding love for someone. A love that encompasses every aspect of love. Family, friendship, and intimacy. Lust is even better. I breed that man and allow my seed – my mark inside him – to feed on that love. As it grows stronger, so do I. Everyone standing in the way of my intended will die to strengthen me until I can take my chosen one.”

Dean snorted. “Joke’s on you then. I don’t have anyone like that. Male or female.”

“Then why does your cock get hard when you think about your little brother?”

The bottom of Dean’s world fell out at that moment. No one knew. Not a soul. He’d never uttered that secret to anyone. Never even spoken it aloud when he was alone. He recovered quickly though, putting on an expression between a smirk and a grimace. “You’re kidding, right? You think I wanna bone my brother? That’s sick, dude, even for a monster.”

Sam shook his head. “Put up that tough façade all you want, Dean. I know what’s in your heart. I know all your dirty little secrets. I even know all about what you did in Hell.” He leaned close to his ear, breathing cool air against Dean’s already chilled flesh. “Why don’t we go lie down on the bed and see if we can play surgeon. Just like you and Alastair used to do to those poor, crying souls on the rack.”

Dean clenched his jaw at Sam’s words. He began to struggle, feeling Sam’s grip tighten further on him.

“Let me go,” He hissed, trying every trick he knew to break the grasp holding him still.

“I don’t think so.” With that, Sam began to drag Dean toward the bed. Dean’s attempts at fighting him off were about as effective as a fly attacking a bear. If that. Dean shouted – maybe he could scare himself awake. Or maybe the real Sam would hear him and wake him up again. That was it. He began to call Sam’s name at the top of his lungs, praying he was actually screaming in the real world, not just in his head.

Sam began to laugh. “You can’t escape me, Dean. I told you – no one who carries my mark can win. You and your brother shouldn’t have gotten in my way.”

Dean grunted in a surprised pain when Sam threw him down on the bed and straddled his hips. He began to throw punches, not all that surprised when Sam dodged them easily, pinning his arms down. This was his head after all. If this monster was in his head, he knew all of Dean’s moves as soon as Dean decided to make them. There was no winning here unless he could wake up.

As Dean began to shout for Sam again, the Sam on his lap reached under his pillow, withdrawing his Bowie knife. Dean’s voice withered in his throat. “What are you doing with that?”

“I told you. We’re going to play surgeon. Surely you remember all the things done to you in Hell. And the things you did to people. We’re going to do it all over again.” He dragged the blade’s flat side down Dean’s chest, starting at the dip of his throat and going down, down, until it reached his belly button.

Dean’s hands began to shake, memories of Hell coming back full force. Not with Sam’s face. He wanted to scream, plead with the monster. Thinking of Sam had kept him sane in Hell. Alastair did everything he could to break Dean, but he never touched Dean’s memories of Sam.

Sam pushed Dean’s shirt up, lifting it and slipping the knife under it, dragging it up slowly to cut it off him. “See? You’ve stopped fighting. I control you.”

“You’ve got a damn knife, I’m not going to get stabbed,” Dean argued, his entire body tense as the fabric of his t-shirt fell the sides.

Sam’s upper lip curled into a gruesome sneer. “Yes, you are.” He brought the tip of the blade do Dean’s cheek and began to press.

Dean pulled his face away as quickly as he could, but felt a small drop of blood well up and run down his cheek, hot and sticky like a tear. His breath caught in his throat when Sam grabbed it, cold fingers biting into his jaw.

“Stay still. Or this won’t be any fun.”

Dean glared up at him. Steeling himself for injury, he gathered as much saliva as he could and spat hard, unable to hide the smirk when it splattered onto Sam’s face. “Go to Hell,” He whispered.

When Sam jerked back, surprised at the spit, Dean began to struggle again, grabbing for the knife. He managed to knock it out of Sam’s grip and across the bed, but was stilled once more when Sam grabbed his throat and began to press in, closing off his windpipe.

“That wasn’t very nice, Dean. Perhaps you need a more severe lesson about how ownership works.”

Dean drew in a breath past Sam’s hands, the air whistling through the tiny space left he had to breathe. His knuckles were white, fingers biting into Sam’s wrists. The shadows on his hands and arms were dancing wildly now, jumping around and flicking against Dean’s hands and throat. Each touch from one of them was a lit match against Dean’s skin, burning white hot to the bone.

“Screw you,” Dean wheezed, his body bucking up when Sam squeezed tighter.

“I don’t have to screw you again, Dean, but I will if you ask me nicely.” Sam ground down against Dean’s crotch.

Dean’s eyes rolled back in his head, his vision going a little fuzzy at the edges. He wondered briefly what would happen if he passed out in a dream – but then realized that this version of Sam wasn’t going to just make him pass out – if he went that far – he’d just kill Dean.

Seconds before the final speck of vision greyed out Sam removed his hands from Dean’s throat. He sucked in a huge breath of air, his body feeling floaty and his head a little cloudy. He gasped for breath, trying to ground himself again. So, focused on his deprived lungs, he didn’t notice Sam move to obtain the knife until the cold steel was pressed against his throat.

Their eyes met when Sam pressed in, drawing a thin line of blood. “Scared?”

“If you kill me – my brother will kill you,” Dean whispered, defiant.

“He won’t be able to. Because when I kill you – he’ll be mine.”

Dean bared his neck a little more, daring the creature with Sam’s face to do it.

“Dean,” Sam said in a soft voice, “Wake up, Dean.” The knife pressed harder against Dean’s throat.

Suddenly it was yanked away. Dean’s eyes snapped open. He was lying on his bed, as he had been in the dream. Sam – the real Sam – was standing next to the bed, his eyes bulging. His mouth was hanging open. Dean turned his head a little, his heart skipping a beat when he saw the bowie knife the other Sam had been threatening him with – gripped in his own fist.

“You were trying to slit your throat,” Sam whispered, fear obvious in his eyes. “Dean, you just tried to kill yourself. What the hell is going on?”

Dean reached up and touched his throat, feeling the cooling, thickening blood where the knife had been pressed in his nightmare.

“I—It wasn’t me. I mean, I was dreaming and in my dream, I wasn’t holding it, Sam.”

“Who was?”

Dean cleared his throat, still feeling the hands squeezing. “The monster. He comes in nightmares and it’s like what he does to you in them translates to real life.”

“Okay, okay. We can make this work, Dean. You’ll be okay.”

“We need to save Matt. He’s next. The creature told me.”

Sam nodded. “Alright, great. Come on, let’s figure out what this thing is.” He walked over to the table and sat down, pulling his computer over. “What did it look like?”

“Uh.. A guy with um… These weird dancing shadows on his arms. They move like fire, and they burned when they touched me.”

“Okay. Anything odd about him?”

Dean swallowed hard. “Yeah, he’s a shapeshifter.”

“How do you know that?” Sam looked over at Dean, who hung his head, approaching the table and sitting next to Sam.

“Because I know he doesn’t look how he appears in my nightmares.”

“Okay… Way to be cryptic.”

“He looks like you, Sam.”

Sam’s frown deepened. “Like me?”

“Yeah – everything is the same except for those shadows. And his eyes. They’re so cold and—That’s what gave it away that it wasn’t you last night. They’re your color but they remind almost of how Yellow Eyes was. The kind of sharp color blend, instead of it being natural with you. Like he’s a clone, but not a perfect clone.”

Sam nodded. “Did the creature uh, do what he did to the other male vics?”

“Yeah,” Dean’s voice was barely audible.

“Was he wearing my face?”

“Does it matter, Sam?” Dean snapped, looking up at Sam quickly.

“Well, it explains why didn’t tell me. Probably freaks you now, huh? Having to look at me.”

“No, Sam.” Dean shook his head. “I was spooked that night but you’re different. Your voice is softer and you have this gentle look with your expressions. And your eyes are so human and kind – I could never mix you two up.”

A slow smile crossed Sam’s face. “That’s probably the nicest thing you’ve said to me since I was prepubescent.”

“I decided to leave out your puppy dog eyes and habit of whining when you don’t get your way that he doesn’t – don’t push your luck.” Dean backtracked quickly, snorting.

Sam rolled his eyes, but smiled a little. At least Dean sounded okay right now. “Alright, so did he say anything that could narrow down what the hell it is?”

Dean scratched his head, trying to think. “Um, something about breeding with the guys – putting his mark in them.”

“Like impregnating you?” Sam asked, his face pulled back into a grimace.

“I don’t think so – and that’s weird, man. More like putting a piece of himself in us, he said it was to feed off our love for his actual intended – um, the wives.”

“So why’d he come after you?”

“Not sure,” Dean said after a second. “He didn’t say. I think it was just to kill me so we’d leave him alone.”

Sam heaved a sigh. “Okay, so… We’ve got nothing. A monster with fiery shadows on his arms that can shapeshift matches nothing I’ve ever seen or heard of before.”

“Wait,” Dean slapped his knee. “He mentioned that people compared him to incubi and succubae. Could that be a link we’re missing?”

Sam’s brows furrowed in concentration as he began to type. Dean smiled softly, his eyes roaming over Sam’s face. Set jaw, the slope of his nose, the wrinkles in his forehead – everything about him was this perfect mix of stone and soft. He’d never be that creature. Dean knew that much.

“You know, you might have to stare less if you just take a picture,” Sam grumbled, not pulling his eyes away from the computer screen.

Dean dropped his gaze. “I’m gonna go take a shower – wake myself up.”

Sam reached out and grabbed his wrist when he stood. “Are you going to be okay in there? Not try to, you know— “

“Kill myself?”

He smiled awkwardly, shrugging. Dean shook his head. “No. I didn’t want to – even when I was asleep. I think whatever this creature puts in you – however he gets into you, he gets into your head and can control your body in some way while you’re sleeping. You see him doing it, but externally you’re doing it to yourself.”

Sam nodded. “I’m coming in there if you’re not out in ten minutes, Dean,” He warned. Dean reached out, dropping his hand on Sam’s head.

“You just wanna look at my ass.” He managed to dodge the fist that Sam halfheartedly swung at his ribs, hurrying to the bathroom before Sam decided to give chase.

***  

The water was soothing, almost lulling, but Dean managed to pull himself out before he fell asleep standing. It would be a rough couple of days if they couldn’t get rid of this monster quick.

He walked out of the shower and tugged on a clean pair of boxers. “Find anything?” He asked. When Sam didn’t answer right away, panic set in; had he fallen asleep in the shower? Was this Sam?

Before he could worry too long, Sam slapped the table and pumped his fist into the air quickly. “Got it!”

“Got… What?” Dean asked. He pulled his shirt and jeans on. Sam looked over, his cheeks pinking up at his brother dressing.

Clearing his throat, he began to read, “The Liderook are a close species to the sex demon Incubi. Originating in Hungary, these creatures can be birthed within the egg of a black hen. Though rare, once these creatures have originated they will begin to feed on a village, re-birthing themselves anywhere that they can find an egg laying black hen.”

“So there’s a whole bunch of them?”

“No – it looks like it’s one main one, but he’s able to drop pieces of himself into these other eggs. Like cloning or asexual reproduction, like some starfish and stuff.”

“You are such a nerd.”

“Shut up. So the question is how did it get into you?”

“Well how does it get into anyone?”

Sam leaned forward again, skimming over the document. “Ah, it says here the Liderook must be consumed in its whole form by the male head of the household. You didn’t eat any eggs from those farms though, did you?”

Dean furrowed his brows, then groaned. “Crap. Yes. Molly made me some eggs the day the Ryan boy died. I helped her gather them up and she fried some up – I must’ve gotten that hen’s egg.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Of course food would be your demise.”

“Hey, I was being a gracious houseguest.”

“You were eating the egg of a hen that randomly attacked me and the kid the night before.”

Dean shrugged. “Tasted damn fine.”

“I bet it did, you were eating the fetal body of a sex monster.” Dean’s nose and top lip wrinkled in disgust.

“Way to make it gross.”

Sam blinked at his brother. Dean knew that look. It was a look that Sam got when he was wondering if they could possibly be related. Or maybe there was a mix up at the hospital.

“Okay, so how do we kill it?” Dean changed the subject.

Sam looked back at the screen. “Okay, um – Well that’s not going to be easy.”

“What?” Dean groaned. He hated when Sam got that tone. That tone meant nothing but agony or trouble for them most of the time.

“They’re unkillable. Even harder to kill when they’ve had souls to eat,” Sam turned back to Dean with a very pissed off smirk. “The only thing you can do is outsmart and trap them.”

“I hate unkillable monsters,” Dean said.

“Me too,” Sam agreed, rubbing his temples. “Okay, I’m getting a headache. You want some food? Caffeine? We’re gonna have a couple of long nights until we can get this solved – I’m not letting you sleep unless I can stay up to watch you.”

Dean snorted. “So sweet to me, Sammy.”

“You’ll think that when I’m breaking your teeth on my knuckles. Yes or no?”

“Uh, yeah, we’ll go together. Leave me alone in here and I’ll either go nuts or fall asleep – both of which would be pretty detrimental right now.”


	10. The Impossible Task

“So we can trick him into taking an impossible bet and trap him while he’s doing it, or we can trap in a tree stump? How does that even work?” Dean asked, his cheek bulging with food.

“There’s some sort of ritual you after carving out a hole, then you get one of the eggs from the chicken and it like, forces him into it.”

“Alright – so how do we do this? We can’t see him. And the lore said that they become invisible to all except the innocent between dawn and dusk.”

Sam sighed. “The only way we can talk to him is if we have a connection with him.”

“Me.”

“And the only way you can talk to him— “

“Is if I go to sleep.”

Sam nodded slowly, pushing his salad around with his fork. “I don’t like it, but it’s really the only option we have if we wanna save you or Matt, or anyone else in this town.”

“I get it. We’ll do it, but we gotta figure out how to do it. This Liderook knows me inside and out. He knew some of my biggest secrets and he knew every move I was going to make when we were fighting. If I go to sleep with the intention to trap him, he’s gonna know it.”

“Then we don’t trap him. We use the impossible task trick. Even if he knows it’s a trick, the lore says that Liderook are notorious risk takers. They love to gamble and make wagers – they’re as bad as Tricksters.”

Dean’s lip curled up at the mention of the Trickster. “Still haven’t gotten my revenge on him for killing me a hundred friggin’ times.”

Sam’s mouth quirked into a half smile, his eyes clouding over a little. He always seemed to get that expression when Dean brought up the Groundhog Day fiasco, but Dean could never figure out why. He didn’t bother asking though – Sam was a sweet guy, but he could lie just as well as the rest of them if he had to – so it was pointless.

“Alright, so we can trick him into what, what’s the trick? I don’t wanna be caught in there with my pants down – we don’t know if you can save me this time.”

“Well some of the suggestions were carrying a bucket of water in a bucket with holes in the bottom of it, or using a single length of rope to carry sand.”

“Those can be worked around though, hell I can figure how to make both of those work,” Dean argued.

They both fell into an easy silence, each trying to think of a task that the Liderook wouldn’t be able to complete or work around.

***

“Are you sure about this, Dean?”

“There’s not another choice, Sam,” Dean said softly. He was stretched out in his bed. A low lamp illuminated Sam’s features on the other bed. Features that Dean could only read as fear and anxiety.

“Are you sure we’ll be able to see him when you have him do this?” Sam asked.

“Should be able to. That book you read said that if you make it a part of the deal he’s forced to show himself to anyone you specify.”

“Man, I thought crossroads demons were bad.”

“At least they don’t bad touch you,” Dean muttered, catching Sam’s wince. He tucked his head a little lower against his chest, as if hiding his expression from Dean.

“Hey – Sam, I told you. I know it wasn’t you.”

“He was wearing my face, Dean. I don’t care how different our eyes were – he was still me.”

“Not to me. He didn’t feel like you.”

“Feel like me? I’ve never pinned you down and r—“ Sam cut himself off, his jaw twitching a little.

Dean sat up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed to face Sam. “Listen to me, Sam. When I say he didn’t feel like you I mean his presence. Just – Everything about him was wrong. I learned to tell in Hell, okay? Alastair would come to me in different forms. He’d do these – terrible things to me. While in those forms. But, at first, I wouldn’t know. I’d feel like I was in a dream or maybe that Hell had been some awful nightmare I was waking up from. And Dad would be there, shaking me or talking to me in the car. Or Mom would be asking what I wanted for breakfast. Best friends from school, Bobby, girlfriends, even people we’ve saved – he used their faces. And then it would change. These people I cared about would hurt me. After a while I figured it out. I learned to tell the difference. And I guess that ability stuck with me.”

“You never told me that,” Sam whispered.

“It never came up. Not something I wanna share with everyone.”

“Did he uh, use my face?”

“No.”

Sam looked up. “Really?”

“I always thought that was weird. The one person he never used was you. I don’t get it, but I was glad. Because you were part of the reason I held on as long as I did. Kept from picking up that blade the first day of torture.”

“I was?”

Dean’s shoulders twitched in the smallest shrug he could manage. “Yeah. So what? It didn’t work. I still picked up that blade. I still tortured.”

“Dean, that wasn’t on you.”

“How was it not on me?” Dean snapped, dropping a hard gaze onto Sam.

“Because nobody could have refused for eternity. You refused longer than most, I’m sure.”

Dean shook his head. “I should’ve been stronger.” He felt an all too familiar burn at the back on his nose; he had been crying an awful lot lately and he hated it.

“You’ve always been strong enough for me, Dean. Always will be.”

Dean’s eyes rolled back up to Sam slowly. He snorted. “Gonna kiss and hug me now? You lame sap.”

Sam rolled his eyes so deeply it had to hurt and threw his arms up. “Jerk. Go to sleep, we need to do this.”

Dean grinned at his brother until Sam smiled reluctantly. Only then did Dean lay down. “See you on the other side.”

“Yeah, I’ll wake you up if you try to dive out the window.”

Dean smirked at him and winked before flipping on his side, back to Sam, to try and sleep.

***

“Your little brother is turning out to be a big pain in my ass.”

Dean kept his eyes shut. He knew who it was, and he wasn’t sure he could stomach that distorted mirror of his brother at this second. Not with what he had to do. The nightmare version of Sam must not have minded, as he continued to speak, stretching out on the bed beside Dean.

“He keeps waking you up right when we get to the good parts. It took me a minute to figure out how he could do that. See, most of the time, when I’m with people in their heads, they can’t wake up. Their spouses, their children, a bomb next to their ear wouldn’t wake them. But you – all that whining six foot sack of flesh has to do is scream your name and you pull yourself right out of my grip.”

His cold hand landed on Dean’s thigh and squeezed. Dean jumped, his entire body tensing, but he didn’t move from his position. Slowly the hand moved up, cupping his crotch and kneading gently.

“And then I figured it out. You have a secret you’re hiding from Sam. Of course – I knew that. But this is bigger. It’s a promise you made to yourself. A promise so ingrained in you that it’s holding you back even from me.”

Up his hand moved, pushing Dean’s shirt up as he did. The icy fingers traced over the fine trail of hair on Dean’s stomach, one dipping into his belly button before continuing their path upward.

“You promised you weren’t going to die without telling him how you felt.”

He pinched Dean’s nipple, laughing that low, rough laugh when Dean hissed involuntarily. “Ah, knew you were listening. So, tell me, how close are you to telling him? Spilling your nasty, perverted guts?”

Dean shivered, squeezing his eyes shut even tighter, still refusing to answer. He needed to gather his nerve, focus his thoughts on the task at hand. He knew looking at Sam now would break him.

“Maybe I need to try a new approach,” Sam whispered, cool lips brushing over the shell of his ear.

And then he was gone.

Dean’s eyes snapped open in shock and he sat up, looking around the empty room. “Sam?” He called, worried for a second he’d woken up. But he knew Sam. His brother wouldn’t leave him, not when it was a situation like this. So he must still be dreaming. But where was the Liderook with Sam’s face?

The room – previously lit with the dull yellow lights that the real motel room was lit in – went dark.

Dean’s entire body tensed, hair on the back of his neck prickling. The darkness was suffocating; he couldn’t even tell his eyes were open. There was no reflection on the television, no light seeping in through the closed curtains on the opposite wall. And it was a heavy darkness. Smothering, like—

Like Hell.

“Sam!” Dean tried to keep his voice steady, but even he could hear the light undercurrent of fear. It was a quiver barely recognizable to the untrained ear. But Dean had been trained to hear it. He’d been trained to feed on that quiver. Grab it and rip it out, bring it to the forefront of everyone’s voice as they screamed for mercy, screamed for their loved ones. He’d been trained for forty years on how to do just that. And he was damn good at it.

His eyes slipped shut. The bed fell out from under him. Hot, sticky sweat dripped from his forehead and rolled in fat streams down his neck and spine. His cock hardened in his jeans, pressing against the zipper even as bile rose in his throat. Getting hard from torture – even in Hell that had sickened him.

Dean’s fingers reached out in the darkness, itching for the knife that was always at his right. The small blade with a jagged edge and spots of copper – rust or blood, he was never sure – that dulled the firelit glow of the silver as he waved it in front of the victim’s terrified eyes.

Fingers like ice touched his own. “Are we ready to begin?”

Dean’s heart stuttered. It felt like a hand squeezing the muscle that kept him alive, forcing the blood out of it as his lungs struggled to expand. It couldn’t be. He wasn’t in Hell.

“Dean, my Prodigy – are we ready to begin?”

Alastair’s voice was nails on a chalkboard – a thick, demonic tongue that he never knew he could understand until then. Cold breath on the soft spot behind his ear. Alastair pressed the handle of the blade against his palm and his cock gave another throb.

“We’re ready,” Dean heard himself reply, though he wasn’t sure when he’d opened his mouth. That was his voice – but not the voice he used every day. Not the voice that had soothed a sobbing Sam night after night. Not the voice used to tell survivors it would all be okay. Not the voice used to whisper sweet promises into a pretty girl’s ear – It was his voice in Hell. Rough, sharp, cold.

“Just like I taught you, Dean. Go on. Make it slow, and make it hurt,” Alastair gently reminded him, pushing him forward. A teacher admiring his student.

He could see again. Dean’s cock ached by this point, pressing against his jeans and bulging them out almost pornographically. It shouldn’t make him hot. None of this should get him this hard – this needy. It didn’t matter who was strapped down on the table most of the time – but right now? It was perfect.

A younger Dean Winchester glared defiantly up at Dean. His firm set jaw, his pale, unscarred flesh – this version couldn’t be more than seventeen. The same age he had his first wet dream about his thirteen-year-old baby brother. Now he understood.

His sick, twisted love had condemned him to Hell long before he sold his soul, hadn’t it? And here that soul was, fresh and pure for the taking. For the cutting. For the torture.

Dean stepped forward, his hand steady. The blade glinted off unseen firelight – but still his younger self glared. Defiant to the core – that would disappear in just a few years.

The first cut was shallow, barely a scratch. Dean dragged the knife along his younger self’s pectoral muscle. And again on the other side: Alastair had always complimented Dean on the symmetrical beauty of his creations.

Deeper now. The person does need to understand that this a punishment for their sins. Dean was taking a personal pleasure in this one. Carving the lust out of this one. That bare, freckled, heaving stomach. Always twisted into knots when sweet little Sammy came by. He wanted to untie those knots one by one with the tip of his blade.

And that’s what Dean did. Slow and steady, the blood welling around the tip of the silver, Dean carved. The firelight glinted off the crimson liquid as it dribbled down his younger self’s body, darkening the waistband of the light blue jeans he was wearing and dripping off his sides.

It was so pretty when he was finished. Of course, he was nowhere finished with the boy – but that one special part. That would be lovely when it healed.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Dean swore he could hear Sam’s voice calling for him. That voice should have been put to rest long ago, the minute he agreed to Alastair’s deal, but still it returned at times.

He crouched, dragging the knife up the seam of the jeans, cutting them easily to expose pale legs. So much skin to work with. So much skin to carve. Leg by leg, muscle by muscle, Dean worked. Some cuts were shallow, barely above papercuts. Others were deep, almost to the bone.

Cuts like this would have made a living person scream, writhe in pain and beg for it to stop… But his younger self said nothing. Remained silent, that look of defiance still present. It was grating on Dean’s nerves. He wanted nothing more than to rake the knife across his face, open that jaw and force that face to smile or scream; anything but that stupid glare.

Again Sam’s voice. Dean rolled his eyes; Sam was long gone. Forty years of Hell down, and an eternity more. So much to learn from Alastair.

Dean dragged the knife over his younger self’s collarbone, splitting the skin open smoothly. The blood welled in little drops, like dew forming on a rose. He repeated the action on the other collar bone and heard Sam’s voice again.

The knife was gone. He’d felt a small jerk against his wrist, and then it was just gone. Dean whipped around, ready to scold Alastair for surprising him, but he was standing in the hotel room.

The pain didn’t hit for a moment. It didn’t hit until he looked down and saw all the blood. He crumpled to the bed, shocked and gasping. No. Sam was supposed to wake him up before this happened.

The nightmare version of Sam emerged from a shadowed corner, smirking. “You won’t die. I wanted to do that myself. But doesn’t it feel nice? Knowing how easily I can control you? How deep your love runs for your own flesh and blood – you sick, twisted freak.”

Sam straddled his hips and pushed him flat onto the bed. “Are you ready to die now, Dean?”

“I want to make a bet,” Dean panted, his heart aching. His lungs ached too – everything ached. His body was being squeezed and his vision was going hazy. This wasn’t right. He was in a dream – a nightmare shouldn’t hurt like this. The rape had hurt but – he did this to himself. Was he a monster too? Were monsters real? Figments of the imagination. Imagination rules everything. He could create worlds with imagination. The world is all around, Sammy – beautiful – you just gotta look for it. Look for Sammy. Gotta find Sammy. Gotta keep Sam—

“A bet?” Sam’s voiced ripped him from his stream-of-consciousness thoughts. Dean blinked, trying to focus against the blurriness.

“A bet,” He repeated.

“And what would you wager?”

He opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He tried again. “I will give you my soul and Sam’s soul – ” His throat clicked. “And work for you as you see fit – If I lose.”

“Mm, I like that. And if you win?”

“Then you kill yourself.”

Sam’s face twisted into that morbid grin once more. The shadows curled up his neck, licking his cheeks.

“What’s the bet?”

“I want you to—” What was he supposed to say? Why didn’t he remember? Of all the things to forget.

“I’m waiting, Dean. And I am not a very patient creature.”

It hit Dean then. “Tomorrow night at ten. You appear in your true form to both me and Sam while we’re awake wherever we are.”

“Is that it?”

“No.” The words were slow. Each movement of Dean’s mouth was like walking through quicksand. “When you come, we’ll have a simple task for you. But you won’t know the task until you get there.”

“Oh? Then how will I know it’s simple?”

“Do you think you’re smart, Liderook?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “I’m centuries old, Dean. I am definitely smart.”

“Then the task’ll be easy. It’s one question. A riddle. We’re gonna ask you to describe something.”

“I’m aware that this is a trap. You intend to give me an impossible task.”

Dean smirked. Well, he thought he did – he couldn’t be sure anymore. Everything was cold and heavy. Even opening his eyes was a gargantuan task. He could hear something, like a whisper in his ear, but he couldn’t quite make out what it was saying.

“But you’re smart. Nothing’s impossible for you, right?”

“I like to think not. Many people have tried to trap me this way, but none have succeeded.”

“Do we have a deal?” Dean raised his right hand, noticing blood oozing out of a number of cuts all over it. Cuts he remembered making himself – but not to himself.

The cold fingers squeezing his hand shocked him. He looked back up at Sam, who was grinning once more. “I will see you and your brother tomorrow night.”

“See you. May the best man win,” Dean slurred.

The cold weight of the nightmare version of Sam was gone then, and the world around Dean faded to blackness.

***

“Dean? Oh thank God, you’re awake,” Sam’s voice was filled with relief and – were those tear tracks on his cheeks?

“Sam?” Dean rasped, going to rub sleep from his eyes. He hissed and looked down. His arm was covered in bandages. He tossed the blankets aside, his eyes bulging.

“Care to explain, Sam?” He asked softly. Big chunks of his legs were stitched or taped shut. He knew he’d fallen asleep wearing jeans, but now he was in a pair of clean boxers and nothing else. His stomach bore a wide strip of gauze, wrapped three or four times.

Sam was dressing the final wound on Dean’s arm, and finished before speaking. “You were sleeping. All of sudden, you started moaning, like you were having one of those nightmares.” He rose and began to put the bandages and thread into his duffel, his back to Dean. He continued to speak,

“I decided to let you sleep a little longer, give you time to make the deal. Then the cuts started appearing. At first I couldn’t figure it out. We’d taken away the knives. But then I remembered that the Liderook can inflict injury without a physical object if it has to. I tried to wake you up but you wouldn’t respond. Dean, I really tried. I’m so sorry, I—“

“Hey, you tried,” Dean whispered, sitting up slowly. He winced, touching his bandaged stomach.

Sam sat back down on the chair he’d brought to Dean’s bedside. “I—I knew there was nothing I could do. I kept calling for you though, I hoped you’d hear me before you did something I couldn’t stitch up. I don’t know if you did, but after a while you relaxed and kinda fell into a normal sleep. I figured it was over, so I started patching you up.”

“What time is it?”

“Took me about an hour to get everything patched completely. It’s six in the morning now.”

Dean nodded slowly. He closed his eyes, trying to shake off the nerves. The feeling that something was off. There was something he should remember.

“So did you make the deal?” Sam’s voice was still soft, as if he was scared of frightening his big brother.

“Yeah, I made it. He’ll be there. He’s an arrogant ass,” Dean tried to laugh, wincing.

Sam winced next to him. “Yeah, the uh—the words on your stomach were some of the deeper ones. I had to call Bobby to make sure I was fixing it right.”

“Words?”

“You don’t remember what he did? What he carved?” Sam asked quietly, as if he didn’t want to talk about it.

“Not well. It’s all hazy,” Dean admitted truthfully. He remembered parts of the nightmare as clear as day, but a big chunk of it was missing. The chunk he received these cuts, more than likely, but his head hurt too much dwell on it.

“We’ll talk about it later. You need some rest now. Sun’s up, so you should be okay to sleep.”

“Do we have painkillers?”

Sam grabbed the bottle from the bedside stand and opened it, pouring two out. “Already prepared.”

Dean smiled a little and took them, swallowing carefully and taking a sip of the water Sam held out. “You’re a great little nurse, aren’t you?” Dean teased when his mouth was empty.

Sam’s cheeks reddened and he rolled his eyes. “I didn’t want you bleeding out on the sheets.”

“Aw, admit it, Sammy. You wanna be a nurse. You’d get to wear that cute little skirt.” Dean didn’t miss the shadow of a grimace that crossed Sam’s face, though it was only a second and Sam quickly covered it with a wide, boyish grin.

“Nurses only wear those in your pornos Dean. Now get some rest.” He rose and walked over to the table, sitting in the empty chair and opening his computer.

Dean relaxed in the bed, watching Sam with half closed eyes. Why couldn’t he remember that part of his dream? What was so important about it? What words were on his stomach? Questions raced through Dean’s brain, too fast to focus on and answer. Exhaustion won before he’d figured out much of anything, and he was asleep by the time twenty minutes had passed.


	11. Face to Face

“Why didn’t we pick some place warm to kill this guy?” Dean grumped as they stood in the middle of the forest. He wasn’t wrong - the air had taken on a biting chill even through their jackets, their breath visible in the moonlight filtering through the thick pine trees surrounding them. 

“We’re not killing him,” Sam said. He sounded years older than twenty-five. He shifted in his spot, the quiet crunch of twigs and pine needles adding to the natural noises of animals and birds in the trees, settling in for the night - or just starting their own hunts. 

“We can’t. We’re trapping him and praying some idiot doesn’t free him by accident.”

“It’s the middle of the woods in the middle of Montana. I highly doubt anyone will find him out here, Sam. Does Montana even have more than a hundred people in it?”

Sam snorted and shook his head. “You’re a jerk.”

“You love it.” Dean checked his watch and sighed. Five to ten. His stomach gave a little twinge under the bandage and he placed his hand over it. It was a nagging pressure, a need to learn what was written under those layers of white gauze. Whatever it was had affected Sam deeply; he’d been tense all day.

Even now, standing side by side, ready to fight together like they had their entire lives, Dean could feel the anxiety coming off Sam in waves. It was making Dean uneasy; not a good feeling to have when they were five minutes away from facing down a monster they’d never seen before.

“Okay, it’s ten – where the hell is it?” Dean snarled as soon as his watch hit the ten p.m. mark.

“Relax, Dean. You know how demons are.”

“I’m sure you know better than me,” Dean muttered.

Sam’s head whipped around, his eyes bulging. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s jaw dropped slowly. “I didn’t mean to say that, Sam, I’m so sorry. I don’t know why that came out.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “Look, I know you don’t like Ruby, but Jesus, Dean – way to be low. I stopped using my powers because you asked. I’ve been ignoring Ruby’s calls. What more do you want?”

“Nothing, Sam – I don’t know where that came from, really. I know you didn’t mean to do anything bad, I really didn’t mean to say that.”

“Then why did you?” Sam snapped.

“Because of me.”

Both Winchesters whipped around at the sound of the new, booming voice.

A man stood in front of them, looming over even Sam. He was completely nude and white – almost glowing in the pale moonlight. Shadows flickered over every inch of his exposed skin, licking the dips and curves of his muscular frame. There was no face to speak of. Under a tangled mess of greasy black hair was a dark shadow, looming up from his throat and dancing like a fire made of nothing. The worst part was his cock, jutting out hard and red, the only spot of color on the creature. It had lost all human-like features that it had had when Dean saw it – felt it – in his nightmare. Now it was closer to something grotesquely feline: a thick shaft, curved to the left. The head was barely discernible except for the line of the foreskin and the harsh, thick, sharp barbs curving downward from the pointed tip to the start of the shaft.

Dean’s stomach did a dangerous flip, bile rising in his throat again. His still sore ass twinged as if remembering the pain of the barbs – even if he couldn’t see them that night.

That cold, cruel laugh erupted from the Liderook and still no discernable mouth was visible. “Don’t look so shocked, hunters. Surely you have seen worse than me.”

He took a step forward and both Winchesters tensed. The blade in Dean’s hand glinted off the moonlight, drawing the Liderook’s attention.

“That will not hurt me.”

“No, but it’d make me feel damn good to carve you up,” Dean spat, his teeth clenched together.

“Oh? Carve me up. Like you carved those men and women in Hell? Like you carved yourself in your dream last night? Was it fun, Dean? Did you come in your pants as the blood dribbled down your blade? I could smell your arousal.”

“Shut up.”

"You needn't feel shame over it, Dean. No one should ever feel shame over the things that give them such absolute pleasure. Does Sam know? How many times you fell to your knees in Hell? Your own come coating your thighs and stomach as you carved those souls? How you'd writhe against the bloodstained walls as orgasms so intense they would kill a living man wracked your body?"

Dean looked down, shame clenching his stomach, cheeks burning. He dared a sideways glance at Sam, terrified of what he'd see.

But Sam's face was stoic, staring down the Liderook with a set jaw.

"You took our bet," He said simply, giving no indication he even heard the words. The Liderook turned his attention to Sam.

"My intended," He whispered, and Dean could swear he heard the creature smiling.

"I'm not anything for you," Sam spat.

"But you are. You did the research, Sam. You know what I am – what I do. You know that for me to have chosen your brother he must have someone he lusts after. Someone who is holding a piece of his twisted, broken, black soul. You’re a clever man, you know the only possible person he could love so deeply… Is you.”

It was Sam’s turn to look away. Dean felt his heart sink; Sam looked disgusted. The Liderook laughed again.

“My poor bride. Your soul aches, doesn’t it? It burns with a sick fire at the knowledge your own brother wants you in the most carnal, dirty way? He carries my mark, Sam. My seed. I placed it inside him wearing your face and do you know what?” The Liderook’s voice softened, as if he were telling some big secret, “I think he may have enjoyed it.”

“You bastard,” Dean spat, moving toward the creature.

The Liderook raised his hand and splayed his fingers. The shadows on his arms curved up, surrounding his hand in a blackness so dark that it nearly disappeared from view. Dean stopped short before falling, his knees hitting the dirt. A low, agonized groan rose from his mouth.

Sam went for Dean, his hand cupping the back of his neck. “What did you do to him?”

“Nothing. I simply used what’s mine. Inside him. I can make him do anything with the bit of me in him. It’s grown so strong now – he really obsesses over you, Sam. Did you see the present I left you? On his stomach? The deep, dark secret he’d never tell you? I thought it only right you know why I’m consuming your soul as I do it.”

Sam’s jaw twitched. “You made a wager with us.”

“I made a wager with Dean. You have no say, Sam. And it looks like Dean isn’t feeling too ready to speak right about now.”

Sam looked back down at Dean. He was resting on his hands and knees now, his stomach heaving.

“What are you doing to him?” Sam asked again, rising and standing protectively in front of Dean.

“Oh that won’t stop me. He’s distracted is all. A bit in his head, as it were.”

“Let him go,” Sam whispered.

“Why would I do that? Killing him is the only way I can get you.”

“You don’t want me.”

The Liderook cocked his head to the side slowly. “And why is that?”

“Because I’m tainted. I’m a freak. I have demon blood in me – a broken soul.”

“Hm. I thought there was something odd about you.” The creature shrugged. “No way to know if you won’t taste delicious though, until I try you. Come with me now, and I’ll let your brother live.”

Sam looked at Dean and then back at the creature. “Do you swear it?”

“I do. And you know I can’t break my word.”

“You’d be breaking your word to Dean then. Complete the wager you made with my brother. If you win, you get us anyway. And you will win, right?”

The Liderook sighed, his body shifting a little. “Fine.”

“Don’t you need him to speak? To tell you the question?”

“I suppose I do.” The Liderook waved his hand and Dean gasped, sitting upright. His eyes were wet with unshed tears.

“Dean?”

Dean met Sam’s gaze for a moment then looked away, rising slowly. He stumbled and caught himself.

“What is your riddle?” The Liderook asked, boredom clear in his voice.

“First, remind me of the terms of our bet,” Dean said.

“You will pose a riddle. If I cannot answer correctly, then I will kill myself – though that is almost impossible itself. If I can – then you give your soul and your brother’s to me, and work for me as I see fit.”

Dean nodded.

“Your riddle, Dean. I am losing patience.”

“Deal with it,” Dean snapped. He stared at the ground for a moment, steeling himself. Raising his eyes to the Liderook, he spoke, slow and clear. “Describe the human world and Earth as if it and humans have never existed, do not exist currently, and will never exist in the future, in any dimension, universe, or time.”

A silence settled over the forest. It was as if even the natural creatures were waiting, holding their breath, to hear the answer from the Liderook.

The creature stood still, the only movement from him was the shadows on his body, flickering and dancing. The largest shadow sitting across his face seemed to grow, hiding what little skin was present under the mat of greasy, tangled hair.

“It is impossible to answer such a riddle.”

“That’s not the answer,” Dean said, steeling himself for an attack.

“There is no answer.”

“But you promised to answer a riddle. Whatever riddle we chose. That’s our riddle. Now give us the answer or admit you’ve lost the wager,” Sam said.

A keening, high whine filled the forest, like gears on a machine squealing. It rose in pitch and volume steadily until both boys were wincing, covering their ears.

Dean could feel something hot and wet dribbling from his ear, and a quick glance at his hand confirmed his worries – his ears were bleeding. They lowered themselves to their knees, but the scream surrounded every inch of space.

There was a second, lower sound, and it took Dean a moment to realize it was Sam, shouting as well. He reached out for him pulling him close and trying to shield him from the terrible noise. Tears slipped down his cheeks; at least, he hoped they were tears and not blood. Dean wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to hear again. Sam was shaking against his chest, the noise too overwhelming to function with anything else.

And then it was silent, the scream cut short, like it had never been there before. It took Dean a moment to realize there was silence through the throbbing, ringing in his eardrums. The brothers separated, looking around for the Liderook, but saw nothing, just trees and darkness.

“Where the hell did he go?” Dean hissed, his own voice sounding miles away. Sam rose slowly, stumbling a little as he made his way over to the spot the creature had been standing in.

“He killed himself. Well, his version of killing himself,” He said, speaking much louder than was necessary.

“What?” Dean asked, standing once he was sure his legs would hold him again.

Sam leaned down and dug around in the brush for a moment before standing and facing Dean. In his palm was a large, shining, dark brown egg.

“Regression to his dormant state – only way he could die.”

Dean sighed in relief. “Great. Let’s get rid of this thing.”

They walked over to a tree stump with a large hole in it. Dean retrieved the duffel bag they’d previously tucked behind a tree and withdrew a thick swatch of cloth. They worked to wrap up the egg carefully so it wouldn’t break, then bagged it in a plastic bag. The plastic bag went into a fireproof metal safe that Dean locked firmly. He pocketed the key and set the small safe into the tree stump.

“Did you bring the stuff for the cement?” Sam asked.

Dean nodded, fishing out the bottles of water and the bucket of cement mix. He mixed it quickly and dumped it into the hole in the trunk until it was filled and slightly overflowing. Afterwards, he stood with Sam, admiring the work.

“It ain’t pretty – but it should hold the bastard for a couple decades,” He commented after a moment of silence.

“Yeah, hope so.”

Dean nodded and gathered their things, raising his eyebrows at Sam. “Ready to go?”

“Yeah.”

They walked out of the forest shoulder to shoulder.


	12. The Truth

The motel room was silent save for the quiet, in-sync breathing of the brothers and the television on low. They were both awake, staring blankly at the infomercial for some sort of salad blender.

It should have been a celebration. Shortly after they’d climbed into the faithful Impala, Sam received a call from the Sheriff.

Matt was okay. The sheriff said it was something like a miracle - a few minutes before he called, Matt had begun sobbing and then laughing. He was talking about a monster being gone, and how Sam and Dean had saved him. They’d found a temporary guardian for the children until their aunt from Washington could come pick them up; the Lakemoore children were going to be okay.  

But the good news didn’t change the thick mood in the car, and now in the motel room. Neither brother seemed to know what to say. A darkness had settled over them, thick and heavy, darker in feeling than the Liderook’s fire-like shadows.

Even the six pack split between the two hadn’t lessened the tension. The bandages on Dean’s stomach were heavy with the weight of insecurity – he longed to know what had been carved on his skin by his own hand, and why Sam had reacted so negatively.

Sam hadn’t met his gaze since the forest, and that alone hurt Dean more than all of the wounds acquired from the Liderook.

Unable to stomach the tension and not knowing any longer, Dean rose from his bed and began to strip off his layers of clothing.

“What’re you doing?”

“Taking the bandage off my stomach. It’s itchy as hell.”

“Itching means it’s healing.”

“Or it’s infected. Won’t know until I get it off.” Dean threw his t-shirt on the foot of his bed. He reached back, fighting for the edge of the wrap.

Sam’s hands were hot on his shoulders, the unexpected touch making Dean gasp. “Hold still or you’ll rip the scabs. I’ll do it.”

Dean let his arms fall to his sides. Sam fumbled with the wrapping edge for a second before it came loose. Together they unwound the bandage. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off the layers as they were removed, his breath coming quicker and then not at all as the wound was revealed.

Written in jagged cuts across his stomach was his big, dark secret in small letters, deep and clean:

_‘I’ve always been in love with my brother. I want him in my arms. I wish I was the one to take his virginity. I wish I was the one he kissed. I wish he’d love me back.’_

Dean felt the comforting heat of Sam’s body disappear from his back and heard the creak of Sam’s bed as he sat back down. Hot tears burned Dean’s eyes – Sam had seen this. It was all true, of course – but he had never wanted to Sam to find out. Shame twisted his stomach as he ran his fingers over the letters. They probably wouldn’t scar, but their presence, even in the few weeks it took to heal, was bad enough.

“Guess you were right. Just healing,” Dean croaked. He grabbed his shirt and pulled it back on, eager to hide the dirty confession – as if that would help. Every time Sam looked at him he’d know. He’d know what was in Dean’s sick and twisted heart.

Dean crawled back into his own bed and pulled the covers up to his shoulders, wanting nothing more than to burrow under them and disappear forever. Sam was never supposed to find out. He wished they’d never taken this stupid case.

“Dean, we have to talk.”

“No, Sam. We don’t.” Dean couldn’t turn around. He couldn’t face his little brother right now. The Liderook saying it was one thing – monsters lie. But this – this couldn’t be ignored.

The bed creaked again and Dean dared a glance over his shoulder. His heart sank when he saw Sam grab his duffel. He was leaving. Dean shouldn’t have expected anything else. Who would want to be around their family member after finding out this secret? He rolled back over, staring at the wall. He wasn’t going to stop Sam, he couldn’t – he’d have no defense, no reason to ask Sam to stay that wouldn’t be laced with incestuous implications.

Dean’s entire body went tense when his own bed shifted with the weight of Sam sitting on it. “What’re you doing?” He whispered.

“Roll over and show me your stomach. I want to put another bandage on it.”

“It’s fine, Sam. You can go.”

“Where am I going?”

Dean scowled at the wall. He turned a little and Sam smiled weakly, holding up a package of gauze. “The bandages were in my duffel.”

“You’re not leaving?”

“Why? Because you’re skirting yet another issue we should really talk about? No. That’s kind of the norm for you. Always has been. Now lemme see your stomach.” Sam reached out to grab the blanket but Dean shoved his hands away.

“It’s fine.”

“Dean, I’ve already seen it. Okay? Seeing it again to make sure you don’t end up with an infection isn’t going to make my eyes fall out of my head. And if you want to know what I think about it, how about you just ask instead of assuming and pushing me away?”

Dean snorted. “Ask, huh? Why? So I can hear my brother tell me what a freak I am instead of just figuring he thinks that? How sick and wrong I am?”

“I never said those things, Dean.”

“I saw your face when that monster was talking, Sam!” Dean snapped.

Sam continued to stare at him, his expression deadpan. “I wasn’t making that face because of what he said, you idiot.”

“Then what? Smell something bad?”

“Well, besides him, no. Dean, you told me what he did to you in your dream, and we did enough research to know that what he does in a dream translates pretty evenly to reality. Does it occur to you that my expression was me realizing how much he hurt you? And even worse – he did it wearing my skin. I wasn’t disgusted at you, moron. I was disgusted about what was done to you.”

Dean’s shoulders sagged at Sam’s explanation. Sam offered a weak smile and shrugged.

“We’ve always been closer than brothers should be, haven’t we?”

“No, I mean we’re hunters. I gotta take care of you, Sammy.”

“And I take care of you. It’s a give and take. Or – at least I try to make it give and take. But, look – I know you, Dean. We’ve been in each other’s pockets for years and I’m not stupid or blind.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I know what it looks like when someone looks at me with lust. When someone is undressing me with their eyes or wondering what I’d look like sucking their dick. And I know what it looks like when someone is really in love but is too damn scared to say anything about it.”

Dean stayed silent for a moment, his eyes roaming over Sam’s face. He didn’t know what he was searching for, what he thought Sam’s expression would tell him. Finally, he wet his lips and sighed.

“So what? You already knew?”

Sam’s mouth curled into a half smile and he shrugged. “I know you more than you think I do, Dean.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“And have you close yourself off? Stop speaking to me? Call me a freak? What if I was wrong and you weren’t thinking of me like that? There were too many what-ifs, Dean, I didn’t want to ruin what we have.”

“You’re my brother, Sam. You couldn’t ruin that.”

Sam snorted. “We’re a hell of a lot more than brothers, you just ignore it.”

Dean scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sam tossed the bandages on the bedside table and rose, turning his back to Dean. His shoulders heaved for a moment and he raised his hand to his face before turning to face his brother.

Dean sat up slowly, still frowning at Sam’s strained expression.

“You think you’re the only one that thinks that way? That feels sick and wrong and dirty for wondering what his brother would taste like? For wishing you weren’t brothers so maybe, just maybe you could have the balls to ask him on a date? You’re not. I’ve been looking at you the same way for years and you haven’t said a single thing. Of course I’m not going to say something, Dean because after all this time – I thought I was reading into it. Hoping you were looking at me that way to make me feel a little better about wanting to ride my big brother’s dick!”

Dean wasn’t sure how to answer Sam. He wasn’t sure saying anything was even the right move. So instead he stood up and grabbed the back of Sam’s neck, dragging him into a desperate kiss that was more teeth than lips.

It took Sam a moment to respond, but when he did – Dean was pretty sure his fantasies would never compare. He found his knees pressed against the bed just seconds before Sam shoved them both down, capturing his mouth again within seconds. Sam’s hands were everywhere at once, under his shirt and then on his shoulders, on the back of his neck and pressed against his chest where his heart was thumping erratic beats.

When they split for air, Sam looked down at Dean, his shaggy hair hanging down and his lips swollen and damp with spit. “Dean—“

“Don’t,” Dean whispered, dragging Sam back for another kiss. But Sam turned his head, pulling back to meet Dean’s gaze again.

“Dean, I—The Liderook. What he did—“

“Was no worse than Hell, Sam. It wasn’t you.”

“But he wore my face.”

Dean stroked his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone, then his jaw. “No. He wore a weak imitation. I know it wasn’t you.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Sam’s voice was broken, and Dean wanted to do nothing more than kiss a smile back onto his lips.

“You won’t, Sam. I want this. God, isn’t it clear I’ve wanted it for years?”

“But, Dean, I can’t—“

“I’m not asking you to take your pants off and screw me silly, Sam. I just got back from Hell. We just got another chance. So why don’t we just take it slow?”

“Dean Winchester wanting more than a quickie?” Sam teased.

“You’re different.”

“I’m your brother.”

“Yeah. But you’re also my best friend. The only family I got left. I think that qualifies as more than a quickie.”

Sam huffed a quiet laugh, closing his eyes and resting his face more fully onto Dean’s palm. “So what? You wanna take me out on a date?”

“If you want to. Or maybe we just do what feels right to both of us. Move forward whenever we know it’s time.”

“What’s it time for now?” Sam asked, meeting Dean’s gaze.

“Now I think we’re both tired. This case took a lot out of us. Maybe we see if we can both fit into one of these uncomfortable beds like we used to when we were kids. And tomorrow, we see what’s next.”

Sam smiled softly, setting his hand over Dean’s on his cheek. “I don’t think we’ll both fit.”

“Well we can try. Then next time we stop for sleep, I’ll get us room with a king size.”

The smile grew a little wider and Sam nodded, twining their fingers briefly before letting go and standing to let Dean get right on the bed and wiggle under the covers. He slid in next to his brother, sharing a laugh as they struggled to fit two six foot frames onto a bed barely able to fit one.

It worked, though Dean found the majority of his body pinned under the gargantuan frame of his little brother. Sam’s hair was tickling his throat and Sam’s breath was already making his chest damp and hot. And Dean was sure he was going to lose feeling in the arm pinned under Sam’s body long before morning. But those things didn’t matter.

Sam hadn’t run off when the truth came out, he hadn’t called Dean sick and disgusting. Instead, he’d let Dean taste his lips and bring a different smile to his face. He’d curled up with Dean and promised to make it work. For a case that Dean didn’t even want to take – it turned out pretty good after all.

 

   


End file.
